


An Empire's Ransom

by Defira



Series: In Her Light [2]
Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: KotFE spoilers, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-29 07:51:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 40
Words: 305,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5120642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Defira/pseuds/Defira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When an unstoppable and innumerable enemy sweeps across the galaxy, decimating Republic and Imperial planets without any obvious reason or logic, it falls to familiar heroes to step up once again to stop the tide of death and destruction, no matter the cost. Jedi Master Ona'la, celebrated war hero and Battlemaster of the Order, leads the charge to see that the vulnerable citizens of the galaxy are protected from this new threat. </p><p>Until she falls in battle against twin conquerors, and her lightsaber is presented to a new Emperor as a trophy of war. </p><p>All is not lost, however- for Ona'la was not killed, merely captured, and while the Eternal Empire turns to confront the warships of Darth Marr and Darth Nox, a small, stealthed vessel quietly flees from Wild Space with two new passengers...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_16ATC, The edge of Wild Space_

The _Illustrious_ was a Valor-class cruiser that had seen some intense action over the last few years, what with the dissolution of the Treaty of Coruscant, and the crew and captain were as battle-hardened as they came. They’d seen action over Corellia and Ilum and Rishi, and had been first to the scene during Darth Angral’s attack against Tython years before the ceasefire had been officially broken. Captain Athalast had a record of military distinctions longer than her arm, and most of the officers were well on their way to securing captaincies of their own as a result of their service. 

A great number of them had served with the Jedi Battlemaster over the years, and hers was not an uncommon face to be seen in the hallways of the cruiser. When she fell in battle against the unstoppable hordes of the Eternal Empire, buying time on Eriadu for the evacuation of civilians abandoned by their terrified government, the crew observed a moment’s silence in her honour, and there were few dry eyes afterwards. She had, in all things, been the quintessential Jedi, and had been nothing but gentle and kind and self-sacrificing, making the effort to learn so many of their names so that she could speak to them personally, always ready with a smile and a word of hope and encouragement. 

It came as no surprise then, that the _Illustrious_ was the first to respond to the emergency holo transmission that came blaring over not only the Standard Clear Frequency, but also over Indigo Seven, the frequency reserved for secure communications from the Jedi Order. 

The transmission claimed that Jedi Master Ona’la lived, was with them in fact, and had been prisoner these last fews months within the territories claimed by the Eternal Empire. Even if the transmission came from a unregistered Imperial vessel, the decision to risk responding to the call was never even questioned. 

Not a soul aboard would have made the decision differently. 

So it was that the _Illustrious_ rendezvoused with the unnamed X-70B Phantom, and if any amongst the greeting party recognised the woman who met them as the Minister for Sith Intelligence, none made mention of it, although most kept their blasters close at hand. 

And Ona’la was indeed a passenger aboard the vessel, albeit unconscious at the time of their docking. Arrangements were made swiftly to transfer her to the _Illustrious_ before the stealthed craft could be tracked by the endless fleets of Zakuul; and then, shockingly, the Sith Lord informed Captain Athalast that there was a prisoner to transfer with the Jedi Master. 

“I cannot imagine the Empire easily ceding the political advantage of a prisoner of interest,” Athalast said bluntly, glad at least that she had a few inches on the demure Sith lord; the height difference soothed her paranoid nerves ever so slightly, and allowed her the fantasy that she might have stood a chance against her should the Sith take offense at some paltry comment. “So it’s either someone of no use to you, or someone too volatile for even the Empire to risk.”

The Sith’s polite smile was unsettling. “I’m afraid you misunderstand the situation, captain,” she said calmly. “He is not my prisoner to decide his fate- in fact, he is under the protection of your Jedi.”

“The Jedi Master is currently out colder than the space between the stars, so there isn’t any reason for you to honour any arrangement with her.”

“Surprisingly, not all of us are without honour.” Her expression faltered ever so slightly as the boarding party from the _Illustrious_ returned to the docking bay, escorting two med units floating at hip-height. She reached out as if to touch Ona’la as she passed her by, her blue skin pale even in the ugly yellow lights of the _Illustrious’_ hangar; when a chiss woman appeared in the portal to the Phantom, clearing her throat pointedly, the Sith seemed to remember herself and nodded stiffly to Athalast. “Captain,” she said by way of a farewell, turning on her heel and returning to the smaller vessel. 

This close to the edge of Wild Space and the theorized home planet of the Eternal Empire, they couldn’t risk sitting about and gawking at their mysterious guests, so as the Phantom successfully disengaged and jumped away, Athalast was already stalking back towards the bridge, barking orders to her First Officer over the internal comms. 

One of her Flight Lieutenants, Evans, jogged to catch up to her, diving into the lift before the doors slid seamlessly shut. “Sir,” he said, breathing heavily as he tried to catch his breath, “the other prisoner.”

“Yes?”

“He’s a Force user, sir. When we collected him, the agent on the ship warned us not to leave him unattended. He used very, um... colourful language to describe the consequences.”

Of course- the Sith wouldn’t have given them a wilting diplomat, she had to have handed over a ticking time bomb. Why else would she have surrendered him so easily? “Is he Sith?” 

“Can’t say, sir. Not like he was awake for us to ask him- but they’ve got some kind of restraints on him, like the kind we use on, well... Sith.” 

She grimaced, rubbing at her face; if he woke up before their Battlemaster, one Sith was still a huge danger to the crew and security of the ship. “Get the Chief of Security up to the bridge,” she said as the lift came to a stop. “Make sure Master Ona’la is in a separate room to the prisoner.”

The bridge was already a hive of activity as she charged down towards the viewing ports. “Report,” she called to her First, nodding to the navigator as she passed, their fingers flying over the keys of their station to finish the calculations for their own jump to lightspeed.

“We’ve got multiple contacts pinging our long range sensors,” Zhen said, her grimace matching the captain’s. 

“Endless Fleet?”

“Too far out to tell, but likely- two dozen contacts and climbing, more dropping out of hyperspace.”

“I want all available energy not currently going towards the hyperdrive going to the shields,” Athalast said, turning and raising her voice so she could be heard over the din of the bridge. “Let’s get our Jedi friend home safe.” 

“Multiple hostiles now moving to intercept at speed,” Zhen called, voice authoritative as she stood over the pilot’s console. “Energy readings suggest primary weapons powering up for engagement.” 

“Give them the smallest target possible,” Athalast yelled in response, as the onboard sirens began to wail to warn the rest of the crew of the imminent firefight. “Do _not_ expose the engines, and no fancy flying, you hear? Don’t waste energy on evasive maneuvers, just get us primed for jump!”

A shuddering jolt rumbled through the ship, enough to make the lights flicker warningly. “Hostile contact on the port side,” yelled one of the deck officers, “damage sustained through decks six and seven.” 

“Boarders?”

“None so far! Hostiles too far out to fire boarding pods with any accuracy.”

“Then hold steady!” Athalast nearly snarled the words, one hand holding grimly to the navigation console to keep her upright as the ship shuddered under another barrage. “Do not engage- maintain shield integrity and prep for jump to lightspeed. I repeat, do not engage!”

The comm on her wrist crackled, and she heard the plaintive voice of her Gunnery Chief say “Not even a goodbye kiss across the bow?” 

Despite herself, Athalast smiled and shook her head. “By all means, Moh’ada, I’ll drop you off right now so you can say goodbye- you can have your pick of gun and everything.” 

“You’re so funny, captain.”

“Get your grunts working to contain any fires, Moh’ada, and stay on your toes for boarders.”

“See, now I don’t know if you’re punishing me or giving me a present.” 

“The day is still young,” Athalast said warningly, cutting off the channel before their trigger happy Gunnery Chief could try to cajole anything further from her. Another impact, and the first shower of electric sparks rained down from an overhead circuit, all while sirens continued to blare at full volume. “ _Someone_ better have some good news for me-”

“Navicomputer calculations complete, sir!” She’d never seen the poor Navigation Officer look so harried in all their years of service. 

“Then punch it!” 

Beyond the viewport, the stars stretched out into infinite white lines that raced towards them like grasping fingers, and then-

With a lurch, they broke through the barrier and went hurtling into hyperspace, the dimension blurring past them in a dizzying maelstrom of blue. There was a collective sigh of the relief across the bridge, broken by a few random cheers and a smattering of applause that seemed to be directed at nobody in particular. 

Taking a deep breath, Athalast pushed off from where she was leaning heavily on the navigation console, hands going to her hips as she surveyed the bridge crew. “Alright, alright,” she called after a moment of exhausted celebration, glancing over to make sure her words were going through on the loudspeakers to the rest of the ship, “we’re not in the clear yet. I want a full review from each department chief in an hour’s time, and I want clean up done before we break hyperspace- which, by the way, is how long?”

Chiehri, the Navigation Officer, smiled wanly. “We’ve made for Koda Station, we should be there in a little under nine standard hours,” they said, their green skin remarkably paler than normal; the tattoos across their cheeks and chin stood out in stark relief, sharply black. “From there, it’ll be four along the Koda Spur, and then we can take the Corellian Trade Spine back to the Core.”

“I want clean up finished in eight hours,” Athalast finished, “and Security Chief Henriks, report to the bridge immediately. This is your Captain, over and out.”

She took a few moments to ground herself, closing her eyes as she breathed deep and waited for her racing heart to settle again. By the time she felt better in control of herself and opened her eyes again, Zhen had already begun to direct the deck crew towards the clean up efforts, and the viewports had been blessedly dimmed to spare them all the pulsating madness of the depths of hyperspace. 

“Captain?”

She shook herself from her musings and glanced sideways at the speaker. “Nass,” she said warmly, clapping the deck officer on the shoulder, careful not to knock his slender head-tresses since she never _had_ asked if nautolans kept their brains in them or not and it just seemed polite not to poke at them, “you did good just now. Kept a level head. It’ll take you far.”

“Thank you, sir,” he said, and despite her praise he was obviously quite shaken. He fumbled to pass her a datapad, nearly dropping it and laughing awkwardly. “Um. I know you asked for reports to come from department chiefs, but I thought this might warrant your attention immediately?”

“Might it?” she asked, half teasingly but with enough emphasis to indicate he needed to continue. She took the datapad from him, polite enough not to mention how clammy it was where he’d gripped it. “What am I looking at?”

“Um. Yes, well, the hostiles we encountered matched all the hallmarks that we have come to expect from the Endless Fleet-”

“You’re saying that like you’re about to tell me it wasn’t them,” Athalast said.

“Well, yes, but also no,” he said nervously. “All prior contact with this enemy has never been with any less than two hundred confirmed hostile craft- the lowest count so far being two hundred and one in the invasion of Belsavis, with the highest being five hundred and sixty three in the invasion of Korriban.”

Athalast raised an eyebrow. “And the big reveal is...?”

“There were only _twenty nine_ confirmed vessels picked up by our scanners just now,” he said, almost blurting out the words. “We didn’t- we weren’t fine tuning the scans at all or attempting any intense data analysis because you wanted- you said power to the shields and hyperdrive only, so maybe we missed some, but-” She was nowhere even close to an expert on nautolan physiology, but the poor lad looked like he was either about to explode or faint. “But sir, there has never been confirmed contact with such a- a _tiny_ fraction of their forces. For them to have sent such a miniscule portion of their fleet capabilities-”

“Either means they weren’t actually wanting to catch us, but wanted to make a show of it, or their attention was tied up elsewhere and they couldn’t spare a larger force,” Athalast finished for him, tapping a finger against her upper lip as she pondered the datapad in front of her.

“Right,” Nass said, looking painfully relieved to have gotten that off his chest. “So um, I mean, I’ll still make sure it goes in the report, but- I thought you should know about that now?”

“Good catch, Nass,” she said, handing him back the datapad. “Make sure you give Zhen a full breakdown of what analysis you did pull before we jumped, okay?”

“Sir, yes sir!”

“Dismissed,” she said, spotting Henriks stepping out of the lift and waving him over. The bastard had a mug in his hand, and the very distinct smell of over-sweetened caf drifted ahead of him as he wandered over to her. 

“Jiri,” he said pleasantly, sipping politely from the steaming mug. 

She waved a hand at him in mock disgust. “You disrespect me on my own bridge and you mock me with your barbaric beverage choices.”

“Hear you brought me a Sith, Jiri,” he said, giving her a pointed look over the rim of the mug. “Now that doesn’t seem like the kind of polite gift one old friend gives to another, that seems downright hurtful.”

“Keep your voice down,” she said sternly, glancing about to make sure the deck crew were going about the repairs and that no one was making an obvious attempt to eavesdrop. She went to cross her arms over her chest, stopping herself when she recognised it for the defensive body language it gave off. Her hands instead went back on her hips. “We don’t know that he’s a Sith- all we know is that he’s either a prisoner of or under the protection of the Jedi Battlemaster, and that he’s a Force user.”

Henriks shrugged. “He’s on life support for the moment, so he’s not gonna give us trouble in the next five minutes or so,” he said, taking another sip as he looked thoughtful. “He’s got restraints on for the moment, but Evans gave me the rundown on what the chiss said. Sounds like we’ve got a bit of a live one on our hands, by his description.” 

She breathed out slowly, feeling the weight of the last few hours start to settle over her shoulders. “Keep him in a private bay, highest security protocols in place until Master Ona’la wakes up and can give us a better understanding of the situation.”

“Already in place- we had the med team take a look at both of them, and now they’re under strict orders not to go back in without a guard.” He made a huffing noise, as if displeased. “You do know that chances are, given where we are and who’s chasing us, he might be one of them gold armoured fellows?” 

“Regardless of _who_ he is,” she said, stabbing her finger downwards as if to indicate his vague position within the body of the ship, “or where he’s from, until Master Ona’la wakes up to give us the all clear, we’re to treat him as an extreme threat to the safety of this vessel and all occupants. Is that clear, Henriks?”

He eyed her critically. “You should get some rest- weren’t you about to come off rotation before the distress call came through?”

Athalast gritted her teeth. “Jervaris Henriks, you did not just tell your captain that she is up past her bedtime.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, ma’am,” he said, polite as always. “Just like I know you didn’t just tell me how to do my job like I didn’t already do it, ma’am.” 

She cast him a withering look. “Department chiefs owe me a report in an hour,” she said pointedly, staring at him until he smiled faintly and nodded to her in acknowledgement, meandering back off towards the lift as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Alone for a moment in a seething sea of activity on the bridge, like an island in a fast flowing river, she took a deep breath to try and absorb everything that had happened, pinching the bridge of her nose in a vain effort to stave off the headache that was building behind her eyes. 

When she opened her eyes again, she had the beginnings of a decision settling comfortably within her. She gestured until she caught Zhen’s attention, and then jerked her head towards the lift to indicate she was leaving; from where she stood with the flight officers, Zhen smiled cheerfully and gave her the thumbs up. 

Strolling smartly towards the lifts, Athalast lifted her wrist comm up and set it to broadcast across the ship. “This is your captain speaking,” she said, stepping into the waiting lift. “First Officer Zhen has the bridge. All department chiefs are reminded that reports are still due to be uploaded in forty-five minutes. Athalast, over and out.” 

The journey down to the main infirmary took her a little over fifteen minutes, most of it spent waiting for the internal trams that ran the length of the massive ship to pick her up. Thankfully there was only one other passenger on a bench towards the back, some young grunt in cadet stripes who flushed nervously when she climbed into the front row. She paid them no mind, shutting her eyes as she let the automated cars run down into the depths of the cruiser. 

The infirmary was thankfully less hectic than she’d been dreading, with only two engineers being treated for burns towards the back of the ward; three more of the beds were occupied by crew members who’d come down sick in the past few days. All in all, a much better result from the firefight than she could ever have dreamed of. 

She waited patiently for their chief medical officer to finish giving instructions to one of the younger med techs, before he turned to her with a beaming smile. “Captain,” he said warmly, greeting her as if greeting an old friend he’d not seen in years. “What brings you down to my humble domain?”

“Doctor Jobun,” Athalast said with a smile, “I was actually hoping you might have had a chance to review our new guests- or, perhaps, that our Jedi friend might be awake and ready to talk.”

“Ahh, yes, our new guests,” the doctor said, stroking his chin as if deep in thought. “Master Ona’la seems to bear the lingering signs of hibernation sickness- nothing drastic, she seems to have come through it all cleanly and is recovering well- but her... forgive me, how are we to address the young man?”

“I was hoping Master Ona’la herself would be able to answer that question.”

Jobun nodded thoughtfully. “The young man is stable, for the moment, but has clearly undergone an intensely severe trauma. He has endured a stomach wound- I suspect a lightsaber, or a plasma weapon of some description- and the treatment he has received appears to be minimal at best. Enough to prolong his survival, but not enough to ensure his full recovery.” 

Athalast grimaced. “Can you do anything for him?”

“Oh yes, we have some of the most advanced facilities in the Republic Fleet- he is in good hands with us.”

She smiled wanly. “Wasn’t suggesting otherwise, Doctor.”

“Of course, he would do better in one of the dedicated medcentres on Coruscant,” Jobun mused, “but, for the moment, we have treated him for an infection his body was fighting off- very likely just a secondary issue after the initial injury- and we’ve seen to some inflammation in his internal organs as a result of the cauterization of the plasma weapon that caused the wound in the first place.” He made a disapproving noise with his tongue. “Such clean injuries, but so _difficult_ to tend to. I have no way of knowing how long he bore the wound before coming to us, but I suspect it was less than a month.” 

“Did our... _contacts_ transfer any information with them? Any medical history, anything at all?”

Jobun looked over his shoulder, obviously searching for something, and then spotted a datapad on a nearby benchtop. He picked it up and scrolled through several screens before handing it to her. “Nothing extensive- Master Ona’la confirmed to be suffering the after-effects of long term carbonite freezing, with a few injuries she appears to have sustained during the invasion of Eriadu that were never treated before her imprisonment, nothing life-threatening.”

Athalast scrolled through the two entries, both of which were frustratingly sparse on detail. “And no identifying details on her new mystery friend,” she said. 

“No, as you can see, nothing at all. I did take the liberty of running some preliminary bloodwork when we were checking for infection, and he is human; there are, however, subtle variances in his readings that do not match our database for any known human genealogical subgroups.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that while his ancestry is human, his people have not had contact with any of the greater galaxy in a very, _very_ long time- long enough for them to have developed a unique DNA structure.”

“So, what, we think that confirms he’s from our mystery invaders?”

“Indeed,” Jobun said. “I think it’s very likely we have our very first captive of this mysterious ‘ _Zakuul_ ’ we have heard whispers of.”

Athalast covered her eyes with her hand, a short laugh bubbling up past her lips a moment after. “We can never do this the easy way, can we,” she said, letting her hand fall back down to her side. “Always gotta make things a hell of a lot more complicated.”

“Captain?”

“No, no, it’s fine,” she said, waving aside the concern. She took a deep breath, planting both of her hands on her hips again. “I don’t suppose our dear Jedi friend happens to be awake and available for a chat?” 

Jobun gestured towards the closest door with a dramatic flare. “By all means. I simply ask that you limit your conversation to five minutes- she is still in need of rest.” 

Athalast nodded in acknowledgement, and Jobun allowed her the privacy of going in alone.

The light in the room was dim, set to be unobtrusive on eyes only recently recovered from being blinded by the carbonite freezing process. It was starkly white and undecorated, the only colour coming from the various monitors programmed to keep track of the patient’s vitals. There was a single bed, and a single occupant, and as the door slid closed behind her, Athalast found herself holding her breath.

Her throat felt tight, like she was struggling to swallow down a sudden wave of emotion; she wasn’t a young woman, by any means, and she’d served the Republic for almost the entirety of the Great Galactic War. Over forty years of active service, two thirds of it during war time- she’d seen a lot of friends come and go in that time, and just as many maimed or psychologically ruined and left to struggle in the wake of the conflict. Seeing one woman come back from the dead, weighed against all those lost and all those left crippled, should not have affected her the way it did. Master Ona’la wasn’t even the first Jedi she’d worked with, nor would she be the last, and she’d seen off her share of their dead too. 

There was something a little different about Ona’la, though- young enough to be her daughter, yet mature enough to stand amongst seasoned generals and commanders without her skills being called into question. Kind and gentle despite the horrors she’d faced, but never someone she would call naive. There was a wisdom in her eyes, a sadness that did not try to deny the weight of what she had endured, but she was still soft despite the cruelty of the war and the sith and the darkness she had borne witness to. 

Which made it no surprise at all, really, when Ona’la’s eyes fluttered open as she came awake, and a bleary smile came over her features, that Jiri Athalast, commander of the _Illustrious_ and seasoned war veteran, found herself quite overcome. She put a hand up to cover her mouth, where her lip was quivering dangerously, but it was already too late to hide the first few tears that had slithered onto her cheeks. 

“Captain Athalast,” Ona’la said woozily, her voice hoarse from disuse. “I cannot say what a relief it is to see you.”

Athalast took a deep breath, dashing the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. “It’s an honour as always, Battlemaster,” she said, thankful that her voice held steady. “It is a privilege to have you aboard.”

She came around to the bedside so that Ona’la didn’t have to strain her neck just to talk to her, dragging a chair up next to her. Ona’la was rubbing at her eyes, her nose scrunched up in a wince as she blinked rapidly and turned her head to face her. 

“I’m sadly out of sorts, a little,” Ona’la said, “so I don’t suppose you would be so kind as to bring me up to speed? I don’t even know how long I-”

She stumbled to a halt, visibly struggling for a moment; Athalast didn’t want to draw attention to it, nor did she know if physical attempts at comforting her would be appreciated. “You’ve been gone for four months,” Athalast said gently, though there was not really any way of wording such news without it hitting deep. 

Ona’la’s eyes fluttered closed, but not before a tear slid down the curve of her cheek. “Four months,” she repeated hollowly. “That’s... well. It certainly... it could have been worse.”

“You, of course, have full access to whatever files our shipboard databanks have on hand regarding the conflict,” Athalast said, not sure what else to offer her in such a jarring moment. “We don’t have anything on any of the Jedi ops, and most of our jurisdiction only covers naval matters, but what there is, you’re welcome to.”

“That is appreciated,” Ona’la whispered, still visibly struggling to control her tears. She took a deep breath, and then delicately wiped her eyes; it was a little disconcerting seeing her without her usual poise and elegance. It made her look extraordinarily mortal, and very vulnerable. “What is... is it bad? The war, I mean.”

Athalast huffed out a breath, settling back in her chair as she considered the question. “It’s not _good_ ,” she conceded, “no war is ever good. These folk, this Eternal Empire that they’re calling themselves, there’s not a lot of method to the madness- most of their targets have been in the Outer Rim, seemingly picked at random. But then they’ve gone and made singular forays deep into the Core, or right into Sith Space.”

“What were they doing?”

“Kriff, first person to get the answer to that is gonna be the most popular person in the Republic, I’ll tell you that much. There’s no _reason_ behind the attacks- they came all the way into the Core, our ships barely touch them, but then they don’t take even a glance at Coruscant. Like they were just curious to see what was going on or some such. Then they do the same in Sith Space, but they zero in on Korriban, not their capital world.” She scratched at her shoulder, an old ache buzzing just beneath the skin. “We’ve got the analysis of every attack so far, short of any going on up in Sith territory that they aren’t so keen to share with us. We only know about Korriban because we still had folk up around Ziost.”

At the mention of the dead world, Ona’la shivered; Athalast didn’t blame her. The _Illustrious_ had ferried some of the survivors of the Republic ground team back to their own territory, and she’d heard the stories about the madness and the hunger of the Emperor. It had been enough to make her skin crawl, and she hadn’t even seen it with her own eyes; she couldn’t imagine what it’d be like for a Jedi, what with their eerie psychic sense for things. 

“So really we’ve just been scrambling about trying to cover our own asses these last few months, because you can’t predict where they’re gonna land next. They’ve got their own agenda that they don’t seem too keen on sharing with anyone.” She eyed the Jedi carefully, considering her next words. “Unless, of course, that fella you brought back with you feels like sharing any time soon.”

Ona’la’s energy changed immediately- she went from lying almost limp and unengaged to alert and on edge in a heartbeat. “Is he alright?” she asked urgently, no sign of the tears now. 

The intensity behind the question surprised her, and Athalast did her best to keep herself from asking the thousand questions buzzing around in her head. “He’s on life support,” she said honestly, “but I haven’t seen him yet myself. The doctor didn’t seem too worried, for the moment.”

The look of relief in Ona’la’s eyes added yet more layers to the mystery. “Good,” she said, wilting back against the pillow in palpable exhaustion. “I was worried I was too late.”

Athalast let the moment hang in the air for a second or two, arms crossed over her chest before she finally cleared her throat. “Mind telling me who he is, Battlemaster?” she asked quietly. “I need to know what it is I’m risking the safety of my crew and my vessel for.” 

“I...” She hesitated, and that in itself told Athalast how very dangerous their new passenger was- if he gave the Battlemaster herself reason to pause, then he was nothing short of nightmare. “I will need to see him, first, to be able to give you an answer to that. But please, I promise you that no harm will come to you or your crew-”

“We’ve already got harm coming our way, Master Ona’la- so are those Eternal Fleet vessels chasing us here for you, or for him?”

Ona’la looked her in the eye, gaze unwavering, and Athalast could at least appreciate that she respected her enough to be frank with her. “Our passenger is Prince Thexan of Zakuul. They say he tried to kill his father, so your guess is as good as mine whether they’re hunting me, or him, or both of us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is a thing I'm attempting, to cover the time span and the events that took place while the Outlander is in carbonite on Zakuul (who, for the purpose of this story, is the Female Sith Inquisitor). It will make mention of most of the other class storylines, but the focus will be on Ona'la for the most part. Whether it ends up covering the entire five year period remains to be seen, but it will deal with the Eternal Empire's Second Conquest (under the leadership of Emperor Arcann), the blockades of the capital worlds, the occupation of the Republic and the Sith Empire, and the destruction of the Jedi Council and the Dark Council.


	2. Chapter 2

Four months. 

That wasn’t so bad, in the grand scheme of things. It was two months less than the time she had lost to Vitiate all those years ago, trapped in the quiet place in her mind she had retreated to while he bombarded her psyche with the immense darkness of the abyss. Four months was only about twenty eight weeks, depending on which calendar you used. Maybe one hundred and forty days, or so, give or take a few. 

That wasn’t so bad, really. 

That’s what she told herself over and over again, repeated like a desperate mantra while she conversed politely with Captain Athalast. 

It was not enough to stop her from curling in on herself and weeping the moment she was alone again. 

She did her best to muffle her sobs into the plush of the pillow, because the last thing she wanted was for the medical staff to overhear her and come rushing to her aid, offering sedatives and painkillers and all manner of unwanted attention that would do nothing to soothe the hurt within her. 

Four months missing from the world- what had become of her friends, what had become of her colleagues? How much more had she missed, unable to help, unable to step forward against the darkness; how many lives had been lost because there had been no one to defend them, to give them the opportunity to flee? If only she’d fought harder, if only she’d pushed through it, she could have made a difference...

She could almost hear Master Orgus’ voice, as if he were still with her- _and you would have grown more tired, both in flesh and in spirit, until your soul bore just as many scars as your skin. You would have fought until the scars split open and bled you dry, and a Jedi can die from lack of compassion just as surely as they can die from blood loss._

She smiled weakly, the memory of his voice enough to bring fresh tears to her eyes; she _missed_ him so badly, even all these years later. She still felt as if, most of the time, she was still the stubbornly terrified padawan he’d refused to give up on, instead of the Battlemaster and Jedi Master and hero that the rest of the galaxy seemed to see in her. She missed his calming presence, his gentle humour- she missed the unflappable faith he placed in her, because believing in herself was a far sight harder than letting someone else believe in her. 

After a time, the exhaustion proved too much for her, and she fell asleep again, succumbing to a blissfully blank state free of nightmares. That in itself was a novelty, sleeping dreamlessly, and after she woke the second time she allowed herself the small amusement of thinking that perhaps her time in carbonite hibernation had wiped the slate clean for her. No more nightmares, what a blessing that would be. 

The lighting in the room was still dim, and she couldn’t rightly tell what time it was; for all she knew, it could have been the middle of the night. The lights in what she assumed was the main medical suite were still on, muted as they shone through the cloudy plastic panel in the door; she couldn’t hear any movement or activity in the room beyond, so she quietly detached the medical sensors from her body, wincing as she pulled the clips of the nasal cannula from her nose. The monitors bleeped an objection at the loss of readings, and she looked down to make sure she was at least modest before the doctor arrived to check on the disturbance. 

There was the faint taste of chemicals lingering in her mouth, and she scratched absently at the spot on her lekku where the medical glue on one of the sensor pads had irritated her skin. 

A shadow fell across the panel in the door, and a moment later it slid open with a gentle whirr, admitting a young human doctor in pristine scrubs, the wariness on his face giving way to a bright smile when he saw her leaning up against the bed instead of reclining in it. “Master Jedi,” he said, carefully closing the door behind him to give them some privacy, “you could have called for assistance. It’s probably not a good idea to be up and about-”

“It’s fine,” she said quickly, even though that in itself was somewhat of a lie; she still felt remarkably light headed, and the muscles in her arms still burned fiercely. As far as her body was concerned, it was only a day or two ago that she’d been pushing herself to the breaking point in a life or death duel against two extraordinary warriors. In better circumstances, were she not so tired from endless conflict, she might have stood a chance against them; one on one, she had no doubt she could have held her own. She might have eschewed violence wherever possible, but that did not mean she had come to the role of Battlemaster by mere chance. “Truly, I’m sure I’ve lain about enough these last few months. I’m desperate to stretch my legs.”

He was young, and she didn’t recognise his face; she tried to make note of his features, commit them to memory (though goddess above, why did humans all look alike?). “That’s- I understand your frustrations, Master Jedi, but really it would be best if you called for assistance,” he said, almost hesitant with his words. She could guess that he probably hadn’t worked with a Jedi before. “You’ve undergone a great deal of stress, and I would hate for something to happen to you under my- under our care, I mean.”

She bit back the sigh that wanted to escape; she appreciated his earnestness, and he was only trying to do his job. “Very well, then,” she said, offering him a smile. Glancing behind her to judge the height, she planted her hands on the bed and lifted herself backwards, sitting on the edge and letting her bare feet dangle above the floor. “Do what you need to, doctor.”

He hesitated for a moment longer, before fixing his smile again and coming to the bedside. “This won’t take long,” he rushed to assure her, setting his wrist scanner to sync with the monitors so that his device had her most recent readings. 

“It’s fine,” she said. “What’s your name?”

He flushed slightly. “Ah... Denn, Master Jedi. Denn Jarrows.” 

She smiled gently at him, and he relaxed slightly. “It’s lovely to meet you, Denn,” she said. “I appreciate you taking the time to see to me.”

“It’s, ah... it’s my job, Master Jedi-”

“You can call me Ona’la. It’s quite alright.”

“I- I don’t know that I-”

“It’s alright,” she said kindly, winking ever so slightly at him. “I promise I won’t tell.”

And the blush was back again, his brown skin flushed over his cheeks and neck. “I, um... I should- check you over, now. If that’s alright.”

She knew the drill by now. “Of course,” she said, rolling up the sleeve on her hospital issued top to expose her upper arm. She had no idea what had become of her formal battle robes, but she couldn’t imagine they were in a good state; hopefully they were simply being cleaned and mended, and she wouldn’t be resigned to the stark white and ill-fitting hospital garb for too long. “How long have you served on the _Illustrious?_ ”

Denn set his wrist scanner to take a reading on her current vitals, attaching a patch to her upper arm to take her blood pressure. “Six months,” he said, his voice a little more sure now that he was on firmer ground. She patiently held out her hand for him to carefully prick her finger and take a blood swab. “I finished my internship at Coronet City General just before the invasion.”

Ona’la didn’t even wince at the small nick on her finger, though she put it up to her mouth the moment he was done. “Forgive me if this is an insensitive question,” she said around her finger, “but you mean the invasion by the Sith? The Eternal Empire haven’t attacked Corellia as well, have they?”

“No, no, just the Sith,” he said, shaking his head. “It feels rather awkward to say we’ve been lucky so far, all things considered.” 

“We should always cherish our blessings when we find them, no matter how small,” she said earnestly.

Denn paused for a moment, as if struck by a moment of contemplation. “Well, I suppose it did give me an opportunity to deal directly with frontline injuries,” he said, smiling ruefully. “Certainly helped my placement when I applied for a role as a naval physician.” Unthinkingly, he reached up to place a sensor in her ear, something she recognised as a thermometer. He froze and blanched quite tellingly when he realised his mistake.

“Ear cones,” she said in tired amusement, tapping the side of her nose as if it were a great secret.

He closed his eyes in mortification. “I- I apologise, Battlemaster-”

“It’s fine, honestly-”

“That was extraordinarily insensitive and ignorant of me,” he said, “I am so- I can’t say how sorry I am-”

“Denn, it’s _fine_ ,” she repeated, trying her best not to snap the words. She’d experienced every flavour of anthropocentrism throughout her life, and if she got distressed over every casually unthinking comment and aside, she’d spend her days in a permanent state of incensed frustration. True, there were days when it was harder to shake off the hurt caused by even a simple misunderstanding like this, but she had to pick her battles. She did not have the energy to fight every single slight and slur levelled against her. “Please, can we just... move on?”

He looked miserable, but he nodded jerkily. “Of course, of course we can Master Jedi, I-” She could tell he went to apologize again, but caught himself at the last moment. “Of course.”

It was a little harder to fight back the sigh this time. “Do I pass inspection?”

Denn wouldn’t meet her gaze as he stepped back, clearing his throat as he flicked through various screens on his wrist scanner. “You’ve still got an elevated level of antigens in your bloodstream- probably just your body fighting off an infection from your wounds, or from being in a foreign environment with no prior exposure to the population. Your blood sugar is low, nothing that a meal won’t fix.” His lips pursed for a moment. “There are a few burns that will leave scars, plasma weapons have an unfortunate habit of doing that, but nothing a good cosmetic surgeon wouldn’t be able to fix, if that were of a concern to you at all.”

“It never has been,” she said with a shrug. Sometimes she had moments of self consciousness, when she felt the weight of the pain inflicted against her in every line and mark and scar on her body, but for the most part it was of no concern to her. If it impaired her ability to serve, then she probably would have considered it.

“As for the scar tissue around your neck,” he continued, and her stomach dropped, “there doesn’t seem to be any swelling or risk of secondary infection, the muscle has adapted to it quite well-”

“Denn,” she said sharply, her eyes closed. 

She heard him pause, heard him hold his breath for two heartbeats as he processed her reaction, and then she heard his sharp intake of breath when he realised his mistake. “Oh my- _kriff_ , Master Jedi, I had _no_ idea-”

“It’s alright,” she said crisply, the words only just short of being snapped despite her best efforts to remain polite. “No one likes to remember that slavery exists.”

“I am- _stars_ , I am so sorry-”

“The scar tissue is over twenty years old,” she said, finally forcing her eyes open and settling her hands in her lap as calmly as she could. “It’s not of concern to me right now.”

Denn looked to be on the verge of a panic attack. “Master Jedi, I- if you require it, I will go straight to Captain Athalast and submit my resignation-”

Goddess give her patience. “Denn,” she said firmly, holding a hand up to stop his increasingly hysterical tirade. She reached out with the Force, trying to imbue a sense of calm in him as she spoke. “It’s _fine_ ,” she said, making sure keep eye contact with him, so that the message had a chance to stick. She hated resorting to persuasive tactics, but she was tired and she was stressed, and she didn’t have the patience to soothe his wounded ego. “All is forgiven.” 

For a moment, she was worried she was too weak for the compulsion to hold against his panic, but then he blinked as if coming out of a daze, and she felt the tension shift. “You are too kind, Master Jedi,” he said, gushingly gracious, though there was still a tremor in his voice that betrayed his recent hysteria. “I’ll update the Chief Medical Officer and the captain on your condition, but otherwise you should be free to move about the vessel. As long as you do not overexert yourself, of course.”

She smiled wearily. “Of course,” she said, relieved beyond measure that the discussion was done with. She’d thought her military medical records carried details of old injuries, specifically so as to avoid situations such as this; she’d have to make a point of checking with military administration to make sure. It frustrated her to tears that even so many years later, she couldn’t escape the spectre of her enslavement. “I’ll be sure to take care.”

Denn nodded warmly. “Was there anything else I can do for you for the moment, Master Jedi?”

There was no point asking him to forgo the honorific yet again- that seemed to be a message that had no chance of sticking. “Are there provisions aboard for twi’lek crew? I’m quite happy to eat whatever is being served in the mess, of course.”

“I’ll call up to the galley and see if the Chief Steward can have someone bring something down.” 

She took a deep breath. “That’s wonderful,” she said softly, steeling herself for the refusal she knew was coming. “If I am safe to move about, I would like to see the... the other passenger. The man brought on board with me.”

Denn frowned slightly. “You won’t be able to communicate with him, Master Jedi- he is currently unconscious. We have him on life support, and we’ve stabilised his condition, he’s greatly improved from when he was brought aboard yesterday.”

Yesterday. Well, that at least answered the question of how long she’d been asleep... although to be honest it could have been the early hours of the morning and they might have been brought aboard just before midnight. She rubbed at her eyes, tired of how much time she seemed to be losing every time she turned around. “I suspected that might be the case,” she said, “but I still need to see him.”

“I don’t know if that’s sensible, Master Jedi-”

She felt a surge of panic at the thought her request might be rejected. “No, please, I _need_ to see him,” she said, trying not to draw attention to the way her voice wobbled as she spoke. “I’ll be perfectly safe, I just need to...”

Need to what? She still didn’t understand why the Force had been so insistent, why she’d been drawn to save him when her own life was on the line. She knew better than to ignore the call of the Force when it had something to say, and the song that had lead her to Thexan had been possibly the most unquestionable source of certainty she’d ever had in her life. She had been _meant_ to find him, she had been _meant_ to save him. He’d caused so much harm, led ruin and devastation and death across the galaxy, and no one would have thought ill of her for leaving him where she’d found him instead of risking her own rescue team to bring him to safety. 

And now that certainty had bled away, leaving her wondering what in the name of the goddess could have possessed her to take the crown prince of Zakuul into her custody.

 _You have never faltered in your desire to see those most sorely in need brought back to the light,_ came Master Orgus’ voice again. He had told her on Rishi that they had no need to speak again, and that they would not meet again in this lifetime, so she had to wonder if it was simply her conscience, speaking through a voice that would bring her the greatest comfort. _You have never failed to offer compassion and hope and mercy, even to a soul as corrupt and foul as Vitiate himself. This man is no different- it is your very nature to offer mercy, and that is your strength._

Ona’la blinked back the tears and offered a trembling smile to Denn. “I need to make sure he’s alright,” she said finally.

“I assure you, Master Jedi, we have gone out of our way to provide the best medical care our facility can offer-”

“I don’t doubt that,” she said, laying a grateful hand over his wrist. “And I am grateful. Please, allow me this? A Jedi can sense things that no machine ever can.”

Like perhaps an answer to this enigma, something to settle her heart and help her to understand why the Force had drawn her back to Thexan, a man who- by rights- she should have despised. She had to believe there was something larger at work in this, something bigger than either of them, and that the reasoning would become clear soon enough. 

She’d been foolish enough to think that she could save Vitiate, and it had cost millions of people their lives, and destroyed the lives of tens of millions more. Her naive optimism had unleashed a monster on the galaxy. 

She needed to know what it was that had driven her to risk everything for another Emperor’s son. 

Denn wavered rather obviously, clearly hesitant to allow her to put herself in any sort of danger, but obviously equally out of his depth when it came to dealing with Jedi. They did tend to fall somewhat outside the regular chain of command, and she made the situation even more murky with her rank as both Battlemaster and a member of the Jedi High Council. Nobody seemed quite comfortable with giving her orders. 

But after a few tense moments he relented, smiling awkwardly at her as he said “Well, it’s not like he can do a great deal at the moment to put you at risk. You won’t be overexerting yourself doing... Jedi... _things_ , will you?”

“You have my solemn promise that I will not endanger myself in any way,” she said, one hand over her heart. 

Denn sighed. “Very well then,” he said, “if you will just follow me.”

Her head spun badly when she pushed off from the bed, but she managed to keep herself from stumbling; if Denn noticed that she put her hand out to trail along the wall to help with her balance as they walked, he chose not to mention it. She was barefoot, and the sterile white tiles were cold beneath her- she didn’t complain, or ask for the standard fare slippers she would inevitably be offered. It was nice to be able to feel something, a reminder that she was alive again and awake again.

He led her through the main room, where several of the beds were curtained off; there was a medical droid floating along the aisle between the beds, humming and whirring in a strangely soothing fashion. Maybe it was something about the frequency it worked at, but she felt a little calmer as it passed. Denn opened a door with a swipe card, and then led her down a long hallway; most of the rooms they passed were dark, and the few she could see into seemed to be a mix of storeroom and administration offices. There was a large set of double doors that looked like the sort attached to a surgical theatre, and then beyond that was-

Ona’la didn’t precisely stumble, but she did hesitate at the sight of the fully armed Republic Trooper stationed outside the final door in the corridor. She couldn’t make out their features behind the darkened visor of their helmet, but they nodded in acknowledgement to her, and there was a “Greetings, Battlemaster” that was far too distorted with electrical feedback for her to make any further attempt to even hazard a guess at species. 

Denn entered a code into the door, and then the trooper turned to enter a secondary code, and after a moment, the locks disengaged and it slid open. When the trooper went to step through ahead of her, Ona’la put her hand out. “I would prefer to go on alone,” she said, careful to word it as a statement and not a request. 

“Security Chief’s orders, Master Jedi,” the trooper said. “In the event that our guest becomes a danger to you, I am trained and equipped with gear specifically for the task of subduing a hostile force user.”

It was a perfectly acceptable statement, and a perfectly acceptable security measure to take, but Ona’la still felt her skin prickle with the need to shudder in fear. She had spent so much of her early life bound by shock collars and stun cuffs to know precisely the sort of helplessness and terror it imbued in a person over time; she hated the reminder of it like nothing else. 

“That won’t be necessary,” she said firmly, stopping short of attempting her skills of persuasion by only the barest margin. “I will be perfectly safe, and I do not require an escort.” If she had to repeat herself every two minutes on this damned vessel, she wouldn’t get much done even in the three weeks it would take them to return to Coruscant. 

“Master Jedi-”

“ _Battle_ master,” she corrected, the reminder of her rank having the desired effect.

“Battlemaster,” the trooper said apologetically, nodding their head lower as if deferring to her. “I will have to inform-”

“Please do,” she said pleasantly. “I’d hate to have to cause confusion every time I needed to attend to our guest.”

She didn’t give them the opportunity to argue again, gliding calmly past the both of them into the room beyond and immediately gesturing to the door mechanism with a touch of the force; the door slid closed behind her, and the lock slid neatly into place. They of course had the means to unlock it instantly from their side, but she hoped the message would be taken as the pointed reminder that she did not wish to be disturbed. 

She held her breath, and after a few anxious heartbeats, she heard the muted conversation between the doctor and the trooper; a few moments later, and she breathed out slowly at the sound of retreating footsteps. 

One more battle done with for now. 

Alone at last, she finally allowed herself to relax- and turned her attention to the only other occupant in the room. 

The room was larger than her own- ostensibly to accommodate the need for more medical equipment than her own recovery required. The back wall of the room was covered with an extensive array of monitors and screens, and there was yet another medical droid hovering in front of the display; the readings didn’t mean a great deal to her, but she couldn’t see anything red and glaring, no alarms flashing angrily to indicate a problem of any kind. That, at least, had to be a good thing. 

There was a single bed in the centre of the room, and she realised she was holding her breath as she finally allowed her gaze to rest upon _him_. 

Prince Thexan. 

She took a shuddering breath, aware of the adrenalin seeping into her bloodstream and sending her pulse slowly higher; almost in a daze, she crossed to the bedside and stood over him, her fingers digging in tight to the edge of the bed to help her stay upright. The last time she had seen him had been on a battlefield, his fine armour gritty and stained by the atmosphere of Eriadu, his lightsaber flashing bright and golden and terrible as he and his brother had harried her from all sides, shepherding her away from her allies, isolating her and leaving her vulnerable to exhaustion and capture.

He’d been a magnificent fighter- terrifying in a way that few of her opponents managed to frighten her, unrelenting and apparently unemotional as their sabers had crackled and snarled and screeched on the steps of the Eriadu City spaceport. She’d kept the way open for as long as mortally possible, allowing the civilians trapped in the city to flee on the Republic carriers. There were hundreds of _thousands_ of people trying to flee the mystery conquerors, and they had no idea whether they intended to destroy or occupy; nobody wanted to wait around to find out. 

Ona’la stared down at him, trembling with the force of the memory. His brother- Arcann, she knew that now- had fought with anger and ever-building fury, his control paper thin and his power phenomenal. She knew most of the burns on her skin were his work. But Thexan... the thing she remembered most strongly, in between the rising fear and exhaustion, was that she had felt _nothing_ from him. No sadistic glee at the chase and the hunt, no brutal satisfaction at the impending victory, nothing at all. He’d fought with precision and power, but he’d given not even a whisper of a hint of what drove him. He’d been relentless, unflinching. _Cold_.

She’d only known one other woman who’d fought in such a manner, and she was infinitely grateful that she’d never found herself in a situation where she’d needed to fight the Wrath. Lord Dara had proved herself a stalwart ally both on Yavin 4 and on Ziost, and Ona’la still struggled not to fear her. She gave off the same energy that Thexan had in battle- unflinching, immovable. _Cold_.

The anger and heat and passion of the Sith made sense to her, in a bleak sort of way, and she had never had trouble countering it. 

She had no idea how to counter the cold. 

But Eriadu was four months and more behind her, and their positions were reversed now- Thexan lay at her mercy, quiet and vulnerable before her. The hibernation blindness had not worn off at any point during their rescue, so had not had the opportunity to see him before now, and so she looked her fill. 

Thexan, prince of Zakuul, lay as still as the grave, and only the faint rise and fall of his chest and the contented beeps of the monitors behind them gave her any indication that he was still alive. He was bared to the waist, his wrists secured firmly to the bed by stun cuffs- presumably to stop him from lashing out at any who dared to approach the bed. His stomach bore a raw, ugly scar, the flesh around it still red and shiny in the manner of a burn; a plasma weapon, then. A lightsaber? But who could possibly have broken through his guard in a fight to strike such a wound? It was not the strike of an assassin, too broad and too superficial to have been intended for murder. And she had seen him fight, she had seen the exquisite control he had of his body and his every move and she knew that even had she been in the peak of health and restfulness, she still would have struggled to match him in a duel. 

But someone had, enough to land a strike that had incapacitated him, and left him near to death. 

She glanced up to his face, but his eyes were closed and she had no sense of awareness from him; taking a deep breath, she reached out and disabled first one stun cuff, then leaned across his body and disabled the other. Setting the inactive cuffs on one of the numerous counters around the bedside area, she turned back to him and tentatively reached out to touch the wound.

Her fingers traced carefully over the bumps and ridges of the scar, his flesh heated slightly beneath her touch. She closed her eyes and concentrated, reaching out for a sense of him in the Force; the Force had called her to him (had all but dragged her to him, really), and she wanted to get a better sense of the man she had been drawn to. 

The pain was immediate, and almost overwhelming; Ona’la flinched and steadied herself, smoothing aside the worst of it. She’d always desired nothing more than to act as a healer and teacher, and though the Force had led her elsewhere, she knew more than a regular knight would when it came to healing techniques. She pressed her palm flat against the scar as gently as possible, letting the Force flow through her into him, and after a moment the intensity of the pain echoing in her head eased. She felt a little of the tension in the muscles beneath her hand bleed away, and the uncomfortable heat was far more bearable.

She cracked open one eye to check on him, but he had not stirred, so she returned her focus to the task at hand. It was a little easier to get a sense of things while he slept, with his unconscious mind more free; it was not precisely the most ethical thing for her to be doing, but she had lost four months of her life to this man, and countless thousands had died on the heels of his invasion, and she needed every advantage she could get, every clue as to why they were so bizarrely bound together. 

She did not expect what she found. 

A weariness that matched her own, an exhaustion that went deeper than physical fatigue and seeped straight through into his spirit; it surprised her so much that her eyes snapped open and went directly to his face, expecting to see him awake with cruel laughter on his lips for her to have fallen for so obvious a ploy. But he was still, his skin pale and drawn, his chin and cheeks peppered with the hair growth that she had learned over time was the result of not shaving, a common issue faced by humans. Stubble, that was the word.

A little unsettled at the first revelation, she closed her eyes and found her balance again, pressing onwards for something more. Beneath the weariness and the physical pain, there were lingering whispers of something more; she hesitated to say it was despair, or hopelessness, but it was something dull and muted, something grey and tiring.

And beneath that, hidden deep, she found a tiny kernel of fear. 

She opened her eyes again and pulled back, confusion settling over her; nothing that burned with the fires of anger and passion, nothing that flared like the greed and ambition she would have expected from a conqueror. Certainly nothing at all that led her to believe what Lana had found in the databanks of the room where they had found him- for why would a man without ambition seek to strike down an emperor? 

Lord Beniko had become someone she believed she could trust, if nothing else, her sensibilities sitting fairly close to her own despite their political differences. She had no reason to think that Lana might have mislead her, or lied to her, so... was the information false? Was the story of Thexan attempting to strike down his father a mere fabrication, to cover some greater conspiracy?

And if so, what had happened to him to incur the wound that had nearly killed him?

She moved up the bed, coming to stand beside his pillow; he looked so frail, so unassuming. If she had not seen it with her own eyes, she would not have believed him capable of such destruction.

He was not a sith, she mused, of that much she was certain. 

She did not know what he was.


	3. Chapter 3

“Attention, all hands.”

The words rang through the internal intercom, audible in every corner of the ship. From where she was seated at Thexan’s bedside, Ona’la set aside the datapad she’d been reading trying to make sense of the last four months she’d missed.

“In the next ten minutes we will begin the procedure to decelerate and drop out of hyperspace, and we do not know if we will be facing hostiles upon doing so.” Athalast’s voice was sharp and clear, no room for doubt or hesitation in her delivery. “The Eternal Fleet has proved time and again that their ships are faster than ours, so if they were able to get a fix on our trajectory as we jumped, there’s every possibility we’ll be dropping out straight into an ambush.”

Ona’la closed her eyes as the guilt and the grief washed over her anew; there were thousands of people on the _Illustrious_ , and every single one of them was at risk simply for being in close proximity to her. She was tired of her mere existence being reason enough to jeopardise the lives of everyone she came into contact with.

“I want all hands on high alert- assume that we will be entering an active combat situation the moment we drop out. All decks, prepare to contain damage and to repel boarders.”

She climbed to her feet, collecting her now empty tray from the mess that she’d been picking at for the last few hours. Thexan had not stirred once in all the hours that she’d sat beside him, although she wanted to convince herself that his colour looked a little better. Her fingers brushed lightly over the scar across his abdomen; there was definitely less heat radiating from him, nothing close to the feverish heat he’d been consumed by when she’d first touched him.

The door behind her slid open and she snatched her hand away as if his skin had burned her fingers; she hadn’t even heard the locks disengaging. That was a shameful failure on her part, being too distracted to stay aware of her surroundings.

“Battlemaster.” She couldn’t tell if it was the same trooper from earlier, or whether the shifts had rotated while she’d been trying to catch up on the dizzying mess that was galactic affairs. “We need to secure these facilities. Will you need to stay, or do you wish to join the captain on the bridge?”

Ona’la glanced back towards Thexan, who still lay unmoving, his eyes fast shut and the only sign of life in him the subtle rise and fall of his chest.

She looked back to the trooper. “My lightsaber was taken from me some time ago,” she said, the admission far more painful than she’d been hoping. She had no idea what had happened to it when she had been captured on Eriadu- presumably either Thexan or Arcann had taken it when they had subdued her, or else it had lain on the steps of the spaceport for the first scavenger to snatch up as a trophy. “I will take up a defense wherever it is needed of me, gladly, but I will need a weapon. Should I stop by the armoury, or will there be something on hand on the bridge?”

The trooper gestured down the hallway with a nod of the head. “There was a lightsaber brought aboard with the two of you- we’ve got it secured in the office. Dunno if it’s yours or not, but you’re welcome to it.”

That surprised her- no one had said anything to her before now, not even Athalast during her brief visit earlier that day. “Thank you,” she said after a moment’s awkward pause. “That would be appreciated.”

She followed the trooper out of the room, waiting patiently as they stopped to engage the locks; she did her best to ignore the flutter of nerves in her stomach as she walked away from Thexan, trying to centre herself and think of the potential battle ahead. She was needed elsewhere. She had a duty to protect this vessel and the crew within, all of whom had risked so much for her sake. She’d risked too much already in choosing to save him, she couldn’t falter any further.

_“This is an automated message for all hands. High alert status has been engaged by the bridge. Please secure all exits and look to your department chief for further instructions.”_

Ona’la had been a passenger on enough warships that the familiar monotone voice should not have unsettled her the way it did; maybe she’d lost her nerve at some point in the last four months, leached from her flesh by the poisonous ice that encased her.

Another trooper appeared at the far end of the hallway, nodding politely to them as they passed, heading back in the direction of Thexan’s room. On some level, she was at least relieved they were taking security for him seriously; at the same time, she didn’t want to put good Republic soldiers at risk by leaving them alone with a man who, even injured as he was, was a formidable opponent.

What if he woke in a panic, disoriented and enraged at his unfamiliar surroundings? What if she’d dragged him from the clutches of death for nothing, because he was precisely the monster he appeared to be?

“Battlemaster?”

She started, only just aware of the fact that the trooper must have called to her several times only for her to have ignored them. “I’m so sorry,” she said apologetically, “I’ve got so much on my mind at the moment.”

“Understood sir,” the trooper said, and she couldn’t tell through the electronic burr of the helmet comms if it’d been said with a trace of amusement or not. They lifted a heavily armoured arm, offering up a durasteel security box. “These items were turned over by the sith lord when you were transferred to us. I’ll let the security chief know we’ve handed them off to you.”

“Thank you,” she said, accepting the case and holding it carefully to her chest. “Please, if anything happens, send for me immediately.”

“Will do, sir. I’m sure we’ll have no troubles though, don’t you worry.”

The monotone voice was still blaring over the internal ship comms, and Ona’la was very aware of the fact that it was playing because of her; she nodded her thanks to the trooper and took herself as quickly to her room as she could justify, without breaking into an undignified run in the middle of the med bay. She felt dizzy by the time the door slid closed behind her, leaving her in the privacy of her own quarters, and she couldn’t say whether it was anxiety or whether it was the prolonged weakness from her lengthy hibernation still lingering in her body.

Her own robes had been returned to her, crisp and clean and mended- no sign of the battles she’d endured, all of the blood and singe marks removed so thoroughly that it was as if they’d never been there. She’d donned her tunic and her trousers earlier, and had carefully rewrapped the strips of linen around her waist that served as a belt- it was as close as she could come to honouring her fragmented memories of her parents, keeping to the twi’lek tradition of shared cloth. It was perhaps a little ragged for a Jedi Master to wear in public, but it was her choice and her choice alone. Perhaps it was the sort of thing that came up in the gossip pages of the holonet, but she’d never bothered to look.

She slid into her boots, waiting neatly against the wall, and pulled her robe on over her shoulders, a lifetime of practice making it easy to slide her lekku out of the way as she eased it up her back. From there, it was but the work of a moment to clip her ornamental collar around her neck- her only admission to fashion and vanity, grateful for anything that could cover her scars from creeping eyes- and slide her mother’s headpiece up to rest gracefully against the crown of her lekku.

No pretty coloured cosmetics, not today- if she had the nerve for it, she’d ask the shipboard quartermaster if anything was kept on board, or perhaps someone aboard would be willing to share from their private stores. She always thought of the purple paints she used on her eyes and her lips as warpaint, a gift from her mother, bestowing strength on her across the years.

Well. Not today, anyway.

As prepped for battle as she was likely to be only hours after waking from carbonite freezing, she turned her attention to the durasteel case on her bed. A lightsaber, the trooper had said, and honestly that was all she needed; there was no reason for her to be so distressed about opening the case, nothing in there that could frighten her. She needed a weapon, and if not for this mysterious lightsaber, she’d have to make do with a generic techstaff, or something of the like.

There was no reason to be anxious about opening the case. No reason at all.

She repeated that to herself over and over as she reached down and unlocked it, her fingers clicking open the latch on both sides before she eased the lid up. It took her a few painfully long moments to realise she was holding her breath, and when she took a shuddering gulp of air, it only made her feel more dizzy.

Inside the case was a painfully familiar set of black and gold armour, battle-worn and stained with the dust and sweat that came from a dozen conquered worlds. When she reached out to touch it, it horrified her to see how badly her hand shook, and she snatched it back against her chest, trembling from the force of it all.

_“This is an automated message for all hands. High alert status has been engaged by the bridge. Please secure all exits and look to your department chief for further instructions.”_

She closed her eyes, well aware of the tears welling up behind her eyelids, and bit her lip; _there is no emotion, there is only peace_. She did not have time for fear, or anxiety, or panic. She had a ship to defend, and she had a duty to the people aboard to stand as their champion.

_“This is an automated message for all hands. High alert status has been engaged by the bridge. Please secure all exits and look to your department chief for further instructions.”_

She opened her eyes, dashing away the tears with the heel of her palm, and reached forward again. Her hands still shook, but they did not recoil in horror this time as she lifted the exquisite armour from the case; there was an intimidating slash mark, the edges seared to a neat edge by extreme heat, that ran almost clean across the torso. For a moment, it captivated her, this horrifying proof of the moment when someone had attempted to strike Thexan down. If she touched it, the slash in the armour, would she feel it? Would she feel the pain and the fear and the anger in that moment?

“ _Nngh_ ,” she muttered under her breath, setting the armour aside hastily. “Too much time in hibernation set my brain to whimsy.”

The rest of his armour was there also- wrist guards, boots, the adornments that attached to the belt and were written in a script she could not parse at a quick glance. Obviously the embroidery was written in the alphabet of Zakuul, and if their intelligence organizations had not already gathered enough information to translate their language, this would surely prove useful.

She knew what she was going to find at the bottom of the case- it was too much to hope that it might have been her lightsaber, or perhaps even just a random spare that Lana might have felt would come in handy. That didn’t mean that her hand didn’t shake when she closed her fingers around the hilt and drew it out of the box.

It was slightly heavier than her own, and several inches longer, and she adjusted her grip accordingly. It was also extraordinarily pretty, the handle gilt with swirling embossments that were almost mesmerizing to look at. Her lightsaber had only ever been functional, never decorative, and for a moment she allowed herself the pleasure of holding a master weapon in her hands.

Then she took a deep breath, and turned it on.

The gold blade sizzled into life, spearing out from the hilt effortlessly, and-

_-and she cried out as it seared against her forearm, her defense too clumsy to fully block the strike, and the gold light sheared over and through her robe-_

With a strangled gasp, she disengaged it, nearly dropping it in her haste. She held it out before her like it was a vile thing, dripping with poison and acid and at risk of killing her from proximity alone.

_“This is an automated message for all hands. High alert status has been engaged by the bridge. Please secure all exits and look to your department chief for further instructions.”_

She closed her eyes, willing away the memory. _There is no chaos, only harmony._

The _Illustrious_ was still in danger.

She clipped the lightsaber- _his_ lightsaber- to her belt, and headed for the door.

She was expected on the bridge.

* * *

When she stepped out of the lift, the bridge was a flurry of activity; beyond the viewport, the stomach churning blue haze of hyperspace burned bright and she averted her eyes quickly. She knew some had better tolerance for the dizzying maelstrom, but it made her head ache if she looked at it for more than a few seconds.

And when your brain extended out of your skull and halfway down your neck, it didn’t matter how much fatty tissue was cushioning it- a headache was a _giant_ inconvenience.

She spotted Captain Athalast standing beside the navigation console and carefully made her way over to her, weaving in and out of the technicians and bridge officers as they raced about making final preparations. Athalast glanced at her briefly as she came to a stop beside her.

“Good to see you back on your feet, Battlemaster,” she said brusquely, turning back to the Navigation Officer almost immediately. She called over her shoulder “Are you needing a weapon? We’ve got some blasters on hand, or I can have someone grab a staff.”

Ona’la swallowed back the wave of dread that swelled within her, her fingers brushing briefly over the lightsaber at her waist. “I’m armed,” she said simply, because Athalast didn’t need to know more than that.

“Well that’s some of the best news I’ve had in damn near weeks,” Athalast said absently, far more preoccupied with the numbers flying over the screens of the navicom. The Navigation Officer, a young Mirialan, was furiously adjusting the numbers as they flowed, by far some of the most precise navigational control that she’d ever seen in anyone outside of a droid. Athalast straightened abruptly, apparently at some signal from the officer, and put her hands on her hips. “Alright everyone,” she called, and her words echoed through the ship. “We’re about to drop out in three... two... one...”

Ona’la clasped her hands behind her back and waited.

Beyond the viewport, the seething blue stilled abruptly and stretched out into thin, pale lines; then the lines had end points, racing towards them, and then they were nothing but stars again, an infinite array of them draped across the black backdrop of space.

And no enemy warships in sight.

“Zhen, status update!”

“Short range scans detect no incoming hostiles,” the First Officer said, leaning over the back of the one pilot’s console while she draped herself to squint at another. “Long range scans in progress, no pings so far.”

Ona’la closed her eyes and dipped deep into the centre of herself, reaching out beyond the walls of the ship with the Force. She would hardly be as effective as military grade scanners, but if there were any fluctuations in the Force, any indications of something disruptive and ill-intentioned, no scanner would be able to sense the things she would feel.

There were ripples, the sensation of something vast and maleficent in the far distance- like standing on the far side of a lake after a landslide had gone thundering into the water on the opposite shore, seeing the flutter and lurch in the waves at the disturbance but not knowing the reason why.

But nothing close at hand; after a moment she opened her eyes again and willed her racing pulse to settle again.

“Think we’ve got the all clear, captain!” Zhen was darting in between work stations, looking for some sign of a disturbance.

Ona’la saw Athalast very visibly relax, her shoulders dropping an inch in relief. “All hands, this is your captain,” she said, leaning against the console again, “high alert status disengaged.”

A ragged cheer went up around the bridge, presumably echoed in other parts of the ship. Athalast smiled ruefully, rubbing at her jaw as she waited for it to die off. “We will be making another jump as soon as possible,” she continued after a moment. “We’re not gonna give them a chance to find us. Maintain a general alert status, all decks, and once we jump, we’ll give the all clear; all decks to resume regular duties. This is your captain, over and out.”

“Captain?” Ona’la glanced over towards the comms station at the same time as Athalast, to where one of the bridge officers had gone starkly pale. “We’ve got incoming messa- a _lot_ of incoming messages, sir.”

“Bring ‘em up, then,” Athalast said, crossing over to stand where she could see; Ona’la, for lack of anything better to do at the moment, followed her. “Zhen, can you get-”

Zhen was already one step ahead of her. “Roger that, Koda Station,” she said into her headset, making a thumbs up gesture towards the captain to indicate she had the matter well in hand. “We’ve got no intention of stopping as it is, so we won’t stress your poor traffic controllers trying to work out how to dock us.”

Ona’la, peering over the shoulder of the comms officer, felt a dawning sense of horror settle in the pit of her stomach as she read the frequency codes. “Those are distress calls,” she said softly.

“Yes, Battlemaster,” the comms officer said, swallowing nervously. She gestured to the screen. “All of those ones, those are Republic frequencies- those ones there and there are Imperial frequencies. Then there’s a few on the Jedi lines as well, and a few more on that one-” She quite literally stumbled to a halt, taking a deep breath before blurting out “That’s exclusively used by the Sith Dark Council.”

“None of them are encoded,” the officer seated beside her added, his dark eyes sombre. “Normally most of those channels are heavily encrypted, but everything... everything is coming through as general chatter.”

Athalast and Ona’la shared a look. “Well, we can sit here and guess for the next ten minutes, or you can play them for us to see what it is,” Athalast said pointedly after a moment of looming silence.

The comms officer who’d spoken first reached out with a shaking hand and pressed play.

_“This is a high priority alert for all Republic ships within immediate range of Outer Rim sectors Zuma, Bakura, Trilon, Pacanth Reach and Bri’ahl. Alliance fleet destroyed by hostile forces. Any available ships, change course to search for survivors at the following coordinates.”_

_“Emergency Code Zero: Attention, all Imperial vessels within range of Outer Rim sectors Trilon, Pacanth Reach, Bakura, and Zuma. Darth Marr’s flagship has been destroyed by hostile forces, report immediately to the following coordinates to retrieve survivors.”_

_“This is a general distress call, Priority Alpha, issued on behalf of the Jedi High Council, for any ships in the vicinity of the Far Outer Rim. The Allied Fleet has come under attack from an unidentified hostile force, please respond if you are able to collect survivors.”_

_“This is an AT3 Directive for all Imperial craft. Darth Marr and Darth Nox have been overwhelmed by hostile forces.”_

_“This is an Omega Alert to all available SIS craft.”_

_“Code Delta-Seven-Seven, all Imperial Intelligence agents, report immediately.”_

On and on it went, some clearly issued from the besieged vessels, and for the chatter to jump from calm and composed prerecorded emergency signals to the begging, desperate pleas of the injured and the dying was horrifying. They knew no rescue was coming, that no one would arrive to spare them from the endless ships of what had to be the Eternal Fleet, and still they sent their broken, hysterical prayers out into the darkness, begging for someone to come and spare them from a lonely death in a dark, uncharted corner of the galaxy.

The bridge had gone silent by the time they finished playing all of the messages; everyone was watching, waiting, and Ona’la knew that were it not for her presence- and for Thexan- that Athalast would have called for the ship to turn about and head back to Wild Space before the first message had even finished playing.

In the odd nature of the military hierarchy in the Republic, Ona’la was technically the ranking officer on the _Illustrious_ , despite not being a Republic officer. She could order them to make preparations immediately to return to the area they’d retrieved her from, and Athalast wouldn’t have been able to countermand her.

She could also order them to maintain course, and to disregard all communications demanding they respond to the contrary.

She stayed quiet.

Athalast sighed loudly, frustration bubbling beneath the surface of the sound. “Well,” she said into the silence, “at least we know now why they were too distracted to chase us.”

“Captain,” Ona’la began, but Athalast immediately cut her a warning look.

She took her by the arm and pulled her over to the viewport, out of immediate earshot of the bridge crew. “If your friend down in the med bay is who you say he is, we can’t risk going back,” Athalast said, her tone deathly serious. “That was a war fleet, and war has casualties- and the Imps have lost their two most powerful dark lords, if those reports were accurate. There’s gonna be a power vacuum in sith space, and we both know the Supreme Chancellor isn’t gonna sit on her hands with an opportunity like that. We need to get you- _and_ your friend- back to Coruscant.”

“He’s not my friend,” Ona’la said faintly, because it was the only thing she could think of to say. Athalast was right, of course she was- and now countless thousands of people had died yet again, and potentially more would die, because they couldn’t risk going to save them.

Because of her.

“You’re not looking so bright-eyed,” Athalast said bluntly, squeezing her arm once for comfort before dropping her hand. “It’s probably a bit early for you to be back on your feet. Why don’t you get some more rest?”

Ona’la put a hand up to her forehead, trying to think. She _didn’t_ feel fine, if she was being honest, but she had a duty-

“I know that look,” Athalast said. “Used to see it in the mirror myself most days, when I was younger and stupid. Well, stupider. You’re not doing anyone any favours if you grind yourself down into the floor.”

“I haven’t even had the chance to contact the High Council...”

“We’ll get to that- signal out here is tetchy at best, not the best relay network this far out. When we reach Gerrenthum, we’ll have a chance to make contact with Coruscant and Tython before we hit the Trade Spine.”

There wasn’t really anything she could say in opposition to that. “Alright,” she said softly, trying not to think about the fact that she was complicit in the decision to weigh the worth of a war criminal against the lives of thousands of Republic and Imperial soldiers.

“You alright there, Jedi? You’re looking awfully pale. You need me to have someone help you down to the med bay?”

The med bay wasn’t that far, she didn’t-

“Battlemaster?”

If she said anything else at all, Ona’la didn’t catch it- but thankfully, Athalast _did_ catch her, when she fainted dead away.

* * *

_The Spire, Zakuul, Wild Space_

Beyond the windows, the stars spun against the inky backdrop of infinity. The Spire was a marvel of technology and ingenuity, soaring up from the murky, fetid swamps of Zakuul proper until it broke through the clouds and burst clear of the atmosphere itself, surrounded by nothing but the cold, crisp darkness of space.

Arcann liked to stand as close to the glass as possible, his feet on the clear panels that jutted out over the edge of the immense drop, with nothing between him and the certainty of a cold, choking death but the flimsy pane of crystal. All it would take was one errant piece of space debris, caught in the orbit of the planet and ricocheting through space like a poorly aimed cannon slug. All it would take was one particularly suicidal pilot, determined to make their death count.

All it would take was one strike from his fucking robot arm- wait, _cybernetic_ arm in polite company- and he would be dead.

Would he be dead before he hit the surface of the swamps so far below? Would the catastrophic shift in pressure as he plummeted through the atmosphere crush his skull like a bird’s egg under foot? Or would the re-entry incinerate him, searing the flesh from his bones in the most agonizing pain imaginable, leaving only cinders and ash to float down on the unsuspecting world below?

He put the cybernetic hand against the glass, palm flat.

Would he drift and float and fade away over long minutes, suffocating in the cold of space as his brain and his body shut down? Would he escape gravity, drifting ever deeper into the darkness, cold and lifeless?

If there was an afterlife amongst the Old Gods, would they welcome the son of the man who had displaced them? He had no reason to believe in Izax, or the Lady Scyva, but he could not see them greeting their usurper’s child with any warmth if they did exist.

Had Thexan already discovered this himself, in whatever realm his soul had fled to when he’d cut him down? Murdered in one lifetime and cast out in another?

There was a faint groaning sound, a deep, lingering screech. He was pressing harder on the glass, the structure struggling to contain the strength in his arm.

“ _You’re gonna break the window_ ,” came a sing-song voice behind him, and he pulled his hand back violently, furious at having allowed Vaylin to creep up on him without noticing it. She giggled delightedly, able to sense the flare in his mood as easily as if he’d blurted his feelings aloud, and a moment later she drew level with him.

“What do you _want_ , Vaylin?” he snapped, clenching his human hand- his _normal_ hand- at his side.

“Nothing. Dunno. I’m bored.” She swung her arms absently at her side. “Can’t think straight. Ever since Father put the blocks back in.”

Their _beloved_ father had made sure to wait until he and Thexan had been tens of thousands of light years away waging war in the Core before shackling Vaylin’s powers as he had when she’d been but a toddler. The bonds had weakened a year or two ago, enough that even as a teenager she’d suddenly become a plausible threat to Valkorion’s power.

Even as the favoured child, that had not spared her his cruelty and his manipulations.

“What are you doing?”

His jaw clenched beneath the faceplate, and the motion pulled at muscles still raw and ruined from the injuries he’d sustained on Korriban. “Thinking,” he growled, pushing the word past his teeth with difficulty.

“Didn’t think you knew how to do that- kidding, kidding.” She laughed at herself, and then let out a noise of pained frustration, one hand going up to her forehead. “Ugh, it’s so... _everything_.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t precisely care for the company.

Thexan always knew how to read his moods and respond accordingly. Always with his hand outstretched to help him stand, always with his palm against the centre of his chest to stop him from lashing out, always solid and grounded and-

“You’re thinking about him again.” Vaylin had gone peculiarly still. “It’s okay, I miss him too.”

As if she could possibly understand the depth of what it meant to him, as if she could possibly comprehend the ugly, twisted self loathing he felt towards himself and the furious towering rage he felt towards Thexan for doing what he’d done. For leaving him alone.

“I’d rather have my arm back,” he said.

He turned and stalked away from her, away from her prying needling questions and her incessant need for attention or comfort or company or _something_. Something that he couldn’t give her, but that Thexan would probably have understood in a heartbeat.

Maybe their new guests would be awake. Maybe he could encourage them awake with a subtle kick to the head.

Maybe it was time he finished what Thexan had thwarted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have certain thoughts about Vaylin being neuroatypical, and her need to be constantly moving and constantly involved in the events of KotFE (she barely ever stays still) and so my writing of her is going to reflect that.


	4. Chapter 4

Ona’la liked to hope that one day she’d become accustomed to the nightmares- if she couldn’t hope for them to stop entirely, then maybe one day they would not hurt her anymore. The one time she’d confided in Archiban, in the course of asking him for medical advice on any supplements that might help her sleep at ease, he’d made an offhand comment about the worst dream he’d ever experienced was of being naked in front of a room of his ex-girlfriends. Which had then seamlessly segued into him winking lasciviously and offering to give her something _good_ to dream about instead. 

She’d never ended up taking anything for the dreams, after that. She felt uncomfortable exposing a vulnerable part of herself when he had so effortlessly turned it into a joke; she knew that to some extent, that was his own coping technique, but it didn’t help her to feel at peace in the slightest. 

So she did her best to cope with the bad nights as they came, and she didn’t ask for any help to sleep again. 

She didn’t know if all twi’leks dreamed with such clarity, or if it was a peculiarity of hers from her Force training; she didn’t precisely have an eidetic memory, but she’d certainly noticed the difference between her own powers of retention and those of the other human students in her classes in the temple. She’d always assumed that her physiology was different to the human standard, but the strength of the dreams made her rue it intensely.

Sometimes she dreamt of the mines. The dark and the crushing stone, the panic that came from narrow tunnels that scraped her skin raw, that still she had to squeeze through or risk the wrath of the foreman and his shock whip. On those nights she woke with her throat choking on the memory of the dust and the silt, convinced the walls were closing in on her, certain that if she were to spit up into the sink, she would see the black filth that had left her lungs weak and scarred for years to come. Sometimes she woke up calling the names of the other children, the ones she had fought to protect, the ones the slavers had not hesitated to hurt once they knew it would keep her in line to threaten them. 

Other times she dreamed of Angral, and the death of Uphrades. She felt with perfect clarity all over again what it was to feel the moment her master was struck down, the way something tore inside of her as surely as if the weapon had taken her own life, instead of Orgus’. But not even in her dreams was she given the solace to stop and grieve and let the wound in her soul heal; it always went hand in hand with the overwhelming, horrifying maelstrom that was the waves of fire and death that had wrapped around Uphrades, boiling and burning ten million and more. Those were the nights she woke in hysterics, shaking and sobbing as ten million screams echoed around in her head without pause, her blankets kicked onto the floor in an attempt to escape the unnatural heat that her thrashing had built up in the bed, heat that her panicked brain wanted her to believe was the fire licking over her skin. 

Ziost had been the newest addition to her stable of nightmares, the cold, inevitable death of an entire world no less terrifying just because it had happened with rain and ash rather than storms of fire. She always found herself standing on the viewing platform of the space station, bizarrely alone and agonizingly silent as she watched the wave of power ripple over the cold, grey world. Every death, every life form, gone in a matter of minutes, all of it cold and empty and eerily silent, a ringing aching emptiness in her soul as if she had fallen into a void between the stars, no light and no life and no hope of escape. The nothingness rang in her head, the soul-destroying loneliness that came from being even beyond the reach of the Force. When she dreamed of Ziost, she woke cold and paralysed, tears slowly sliding from her eyes as she waited for feeling to return to her limbs. She did not panic, but the yawning void inside of her took hours to recede.

Now there were more- dreams of exhaustion and hopelessness and flashing, golden blades.

When she awoke back in the med bay, with her pulse racing and her heart in her throat, Kira’s screams ringing in her ears, her panic nearly turned to hysteria at the sight of a body looming over her. She recoiled immediately, and that was enough for her mystery guest to take a step backwards. 

“Easy, easy, Master Jedi,” came a vaguely familiar voice. From the depths of her panicked brain, her thoughts plucked at a name- _Jobun_ \- and a moment later she felt something cold slither beneath her skin; she rolled her head to the side, breathing rapidly and not getting nearly enough oxygen into her lungs despite that, and saw the IV line resting in the soft skin of her inner elbow. “You’re alright, my dear.”

She swallowed down the worst of the panic with immense difficulty, clenching her eyes tightly closed as she fought to control herself. She felt _exhausted_ , as if she hadn’t just slept for four months but had instead been awake for every single moment of every single day. 

“You gave us quite a scare there, Master Jedi,” the doctor continued, his voice warm and gentle despite the chastisement. 

After a moment’s struggle, she whispered “It was not my intention to pass out.”

He chuckled softly. “I do not doubt it- few ever do, after all. No, while I might perhaps be quite cross at you for overextending yourself before your body was ready, I was actually referring to your nocturnal activities. My goodness, what a shock it was when your vitals all began climbing- we thought the monitors had broken!”

“I- I’m sorry?” She opened her eyes hesitantly.

Doctor Jobun shook his head, but he was still smiling. “You have nothing to apologise for, Master Jedi, although I am concerned as to why your nightmares are not recorded in your medical files. You have a staff doctor who travels with you, yes? Why have you gone untreated?”

She swallowed nervously. “They’re just dreams,” she said quietly. “I didn’t want to make a fuss.”

“Nonsense! Master Jedi, you more than any other should recognise the power our subconscious mind can have over us- there is nothing insignificant about mental or spiritual pain, and it will fester as badly as any physical injury. Surely your Jedi order teaches the importance of such, what with all of your meditation and mind tricks?” 

It was a painfully obvious question, and she fought back the urge to cringe at the reminder. “Well, I- yes, they do,” she said, stopping herself from responding to the suggestion that her powers were nothing but _mind tricks_. “I just-”

“Did you inform your staff doctor? What recommendations did he make for your treatment?”

This time she did cringe. “He was... not helpful,” she said awkwardly, the words sitting fat and uncomfortable on her tongue.

“I see.” Doctor Jobun’s tone had changed to deathly serious. “Master Jedi, this is an egregious lack of care and a deplorable lack of professionalism- with your permission, I would very happily make a statement with the Republic Health Administration about his-”

“No, no!” Ona’la lurched into a sitting position, the thin blanket puddling around her waist; at some point, someone had changed her back into the white medical tunic and pants again. Goddess willing, no one had cut open her battle robes to get her out of them. “It’s- it wasn’t his fault. Doctor Kimble is an exemplary physician, we just happen to not... _connect_ well, on a personal level. I didn’t feel comfortable disclosing the exact nature of the problem to him.”

Doctor Jobun watched her carefully, stroking his chin as he considered her words. “It is still a serious lapse in his duties,” he said. “We initially thought you were having a seizure of some kind, when your vitals began to spike so suddenly.”

She laughed shakily, embarrassed more than she wanted to admit to. “Nothing of the sort, I’m afraid,” she said. “Just a bad night’s sleep, one of many.” 

“I see- if I may, Master Jedi, I’d be more than happy to go through some treatment options with you to help manage or attempt to minimise the impact these nightmares have on your health and wellbeing.”

Ona’la rubbed wearily at her forehead. “I appreciate it, doctor,” she said. “Maybe... not just now? If that’s alright...”

“Of course, of course; we will have plenty of time in the next few weeks on the trip back to the Core, after all.”

“Thank you,” she said, relieved beyond measure to have some space to come to terms with yet another upheaval. She glanced around the room, her eyes coming back to the IV in her arm. “I don’t suppose...?”

“Ah- just a mild sedative, nothing to fear. When you collapsed on the bridge, we erred on the side of caution and went with a saline and glucose solution, just to ensure that you were comfortably stabilized again. We added the sedative when you began to convulse.”

And there was something else to worry about. “Why did I collapse? Am I ill?”

“Oh, no, nothing of the sort,” he said warmly. “You were simply exhausted- if I’d been on duty, I would in no way have approved you as fit for active duty. You’ve undergone a significant stress, and your body will not recover from that immediately.” 

Her stomach fluttered nervously. “It was not the fault of the young technician who was on duty,” she said quickly. “He was entirely professional, I didn’t really give him much opportunity to object.”

Jobun waved a hand dismissively, as if unconcerned. “It’s a lesson we all must face in time, learning precisely how stubborn our dear Jedi friends tend to be when it comes to remaining bedridden.” He winked at her. “Stars above, I remember the first time I had to treat a Jedi- it was Master Fain, if you are familiar with him.”

“I know Master Fain,” Ona’la said quietly.

“My knees were knocking so loud I was sure the bridge would think we were under attack again,” he said with a fond chuckle. “I had to tell the Master that he required bed rest, and it was the most terrifying conversation I’d ever had in my life. Master Fain just stared the entire time I babbled- took me five minutes longer than it should have- and I was certain he was about to burn a hole through me with such a look. And then when I finished, he said nothing, and I was convinced he was about to yell at me to get out.”

She smiled slightly; Duras Fain certainly had an intensity that few other Jedi did, so it was easy enough to believe. “What happened?”

“He stared for a moment longer, and then he sighed extremely dramatically, reclining against the pillows and asking if he could get time off for good behaviour,” he said, beaming at the memory. “He spent the next few days sneaking out of bed as often as he could, somehow managing to charm everyone in the process, and every time I attempted to scold him- exasperated and frustrated every time- he would always smile charmingly and promise me that _this_ time he had _certainly_ taken my words to heart.”

“And did he?”

“Not once,” Jobun said, sighing dramatically. “Which is why I know better now to temper my hopes when I have a Jedi in my medical bay. But I will still have a word to young Denn, just a reminder.”

Ona’la felt the weariness creeping up on her again, now that the adrenalin had eased in her veins with the sedative. “So, I’m to be bedridden then?” 

“While I would certainly recommend it exceedingly sternly, I am in no way optimistic when it comes to containing Jedi. You are, all of you, harder to wrangle than a bag full of kowakian monkey-lizards.”

The suggested imagery was so ridiculously absurd that Ona’la couldn’t help herself- she burst out laughing, her hands clutching at her stomach as she laughed until there were tears in her eyes. “That is-” She gasped, trying to catch her breath. “How would that even _work_? That would have to be the angriest, wiggliest bag in the galaxy.”

“Quite,” Doctor Jobun said wryly. “Hence my dilemma when it comes to treating stubborn Jedi.” 

She wiped at her eyes, still smiling. “So the verdict...?”

“I think it would be best for you to remain in the medical facilities until we return to Coruscant, just so that we can continue to monitor your improvement,” he said, returning to the matter at hand. “I am far too sensible to expect you to remain bedridden for that time, although I would recommend as much rest as you can tolerate.”

“So I’m not ill?”

“You are exhausted, both from the war effort and from the lack of medical attention while you were in hibernation; a certain percentage of your muscle mass has atrophied, a common side effect of long term carbonite freezing. You will notice yourself growing exhausted more quickly until your body has had time to recover.”

Well, that certainly explained a lot. “Can I still keep an eye on Thexan?”

Doctor Jobun shrugged. “I don’t see why not. The young man is currently banned from leaving his quarters, of course, but if he recovers sufficiently, he will be moved to the brig.”

He hadn’t reacted at all to the name. “You... you know who he is?”

“Captain Athalast provided me with the necessary information to ensure the safety of myself and the other medical staff, but I am a healer, not a judge. It is my responsibility to see the young man hale and safe when we touch down in Coruscant, and so that is what I commit to.”

Ona’la looked down into her lap, her fingers twisting together anxiously. “You have my thanks, doctor,” she said quietly. “I was not sure I would find a good reaction when I- when we came aboard.”

“I know better than to question the decision making process of a Jedi,” Jobun said, reaching up to the hook above her bed to remove the relatively empty saline bag. “Speaking of- if you’ve no intention of staying abed, I’ll not replace this.”

He didn’t word it as a question, but she recognised it as one. “I’d like to stretch my feet a little,” she said apologetically, by way of an answer. “And I’d like to sit in with Thexan a while longer.”

“Do you communicate with the young man while he rests? Is it some Jedi mind trick?”

“No, no, nothing of the sort,” she said, pulling a face at the brief sting as he removed the needle from her arm, a drop of red blood welling bright against her blue skin before he covered it with a wad of cotton and some medical tape. “I just want to be present when he wakes. I don’t want him to panic.”

“A noble notion, given the identity of your friend.”

The same words that Athalast had spoken on the bridge, and they still dug deep into her now. “He’s not my friend,” she said softly, cradling the impaired arm to her chest. 

Doctor Jobun seemed not to have heard her, busy as he was disposing of the soiled needles and swabs; she didn’t know if she was grateful for that or not. “For the meantime, you have free rein of the medical facilities, including the administration offices- Captain Athalast indicated that you would have need of the holotransmitter to contact your Council once we drop from hyperspace again.”

She swung her legs awkwardly over the side of the bed, waiting for her head to stop spinning before she went on. “That would be most appreciated,” she said, chewing on her lip as she considered her words carefully. “And... if I’m to be here for the immediate future, Thexan will not require a guard. I shall be adequate as a countermeasure against him.”

She was taking a huge risk, both with the safety of the crew and with the trust they extended to her; Thexan was recovering from a life-threatening injury, true, but he was still a powerful individual. She just knew, with a certainty that frightened her, that he would not respond well to the presence of an armed guard upon waking. She needed him to stay calm, no matter what it took. 

“That is a matter you shall have to discuss with the captain, and the Chief of Security,” Jobun said, but he didn’t seem perturbed by her request. He turned back to her, hands clasped before him. “Now. Was there anything else I can help you with, Master Jedi? I see you seem determined to abandon your bed- shall I have a meal sent down for you?”

“How long until we arrive at Gerrenthum?”

“I believe only an hour, if that. I have not checked recently.”

She nodded, taking a deep breath. “I’d like to sit in with him, actually,” she said. “I should see to his condition before I have to speak to the Council.”

“Then by all means, I will not stand in your way- although, if it would be of use to you, I would be happy to compile a file on the treatment he has received and the injuries we recorded when he was brought aboard, if your Council has healers who would find that useful.”

She eased off the bed, focusing on the feel of the cold tiles beneath the soles of her feet to help her keep her balance. _There is no emotion, only peace_. Ever since she’d woken on Zakuul, she had felt off-centre and out of sync with herself, if such a thing could be explained so easily. She _was_ emotional, and she _was_ disharmonious, exhausted from the endless war and endless cruelty she had endured across the years. In a perfect world, she would have time to retreat to Tython, to settle and meditate on a planet that was a living barometer for the fluctuations in the Force. She could spend years in the peace and serenity, giving her soul a chance to heal, giving herself a chance to grieve and to mourn the young woman she had been and to make sense of the soldier she had become. 

But the war would not wait for her, and there were innocents who needed someone to stand and defend them. 

And she needed to know which category Thexan belonged. 

_He is a conqueror, an invader,_ the sensible portion of her mind reminded her as she walked slowly down the hall to his room. _He tried to kill his father._

_We don’t know that that’s what happened,_ she countered as she waited for the locks to disengage to allow her entry to his room. _His wound doesn’t make sense, in such a scenario. And he has no drive in him, nothing that would have encouraged him to lash out in such a way._

_And the Force called me to him._

Even if she didn’t know what to make of him, she knew she could trust in the Force. 

He was unconscious; nothing new there, then. She didn’t know why’d she’d hoped for something different- Doctor Jobun would have informed her if there’d been any changes to his condition- but there was something in her chest that she didn’t precisely want to call disappointment. She didn’t know what to call it. 

She stopped beside the bed, gazing down at him and taking in his features with more care than she had on her previous visits to his bedside. She didn’t think she would ever come to terms with how pale some humans were naturally; it had bemused her for a time, when she’d been a youngling and then a padawan, but the passage of the years hadn’t necessarily dulled her amusement. 

There was possibly- maybe?- more colour in his cheeks, but she wasn’t the best judge of such things. She wanted to say that he was breathing a little better too, and she hesitated for a long moment before she let her hand come to rest gently over his sternum, fingers splayed over his skin. He was warm, but not terribly so- certainly not with the sharp edge of fever, as he had been earlier. 

She stared down at him, willing the Force to give her a sign, some indication that she had made the right choice to save him, some clue as to what it was about him that was so desperately important.

But of course, there was nothing- the Force worked in mysterious ways, and it very rarely was polite enough to leave a detailed list of instructions. She could only trust that what she had felt in that dark hallway, somewhere on a hostile planet, was the right thing. 

One of her lek had slithered over her shoulder at some point as she leaned over him, and it had come to rest on his arm. She let out a breath of frustration as the end curled immediately around his wrist, reaching down to free them from each other, which was how she came to find herself holding his hand in hers. 

She was surprised by the roughness on his fingers, turning his hand over so she could inspect them better; she’d expected a prince, the son of an emperor, to have smooth and soft hands. She’d dealt with royalty and diplomats often enough in her years serving the Republic, and after a time, wearing gloves had just become second nature to her. It was embarrassing having to recount to alarmed nobles exactly why she had so many scars and marks on her hands and fingers, trying to explain the work she had done in the ryll mines as a child without upsetting her hosts with talk of slavery. There were far too many occasions where the mere mention of her childhood enslavement was enough to work them into a dizzying fit of defensive anger and personal outrage, that had ended with her apologising because of _course_ she hadn’t meant to imply that they _condoned_ slavery, of course not, although it always left her exhausted and frustrated and wondering just how close to home her words had hit for them to feel so attacked by her bland retellings. 

She shook herself, distracted by old memories, and turned her attention back to Thexan. His hand was... well, the only honest word for it was fascinating. His fingers were broad, his nails square and short, and there was just the slightest roughness to his skin, enough to tell her his skill with the lightsaber was not blind talent, but the result of hard work and years of training. Somehow that impressed her more than his actual fighting had, proof that he was not a man who sat about idly and expected others to do the hard work for him. 

She could appreciate that- her own skills had not come easily, after all, and it was only after immense physical toil and effort that she had even come to a place where she could be appointed Battlemaster.

Lost as she was in her own thoughts, she still didn’t miss the moment when his breathing changed- a hitched breath, like it was caught in his chest, so distinctly different to the quiet in and out he’d maintained while asleep. It was the sort of noise that she would expect to hear from someone perched on the verge of waking. 

She all but dropped his hand in a panic, sliding back into the chair nearest to the bed as she watched to see what would happen next. The prospect of him waking, of him possibly being able to answer the question as to why she had been drawn to him so forcefully, should have filled her with apprehension, but if anything it was nothing but a relief. To finally have it done, to finally have an answer...

He stirred, his head shifting and his fingers flexing at his sides. 

And then his eyes opened. 

She realised she was holding her breath, and she let it out slowly so as not to startle him; he blinked owlishly, screwing up his face in a wince a moment later, and she realised the lights had to be hurting his eyes after weeks of darkness. She glanced over towards the door, spotting the light panel a moment later, and gestured to it gently to lower the brightness a few notches. 

The light dimmed sufficiently, she looked back to him. He was definitely awake, or in the process of waking, so the moment of truth had come. 

“Good afternoon, your Highness,” she said carefully, proud of herself that her voice didn’t tremble. She saw him stiffen at the sound of her voice, but he didn’t look her way. “It’s good to see you awake.”

And it _was_ , she realised with a certain degree of surprise; it was immensely, _fantastically_ relieving to see him awake, to see him _alive_ , a rush of joyous relief she hadn’t anticipated washing over her. 

That relief lasted all of two seconds, when she saw the moment the panic took hold of him, his throat working as if he was struggling to breathe. Her heart dropped down into her stomach as she lurched to her feet and up to his bedside, gesturing to the med-droid and hoping it possessed an intelligent enough AI core to know what was necessary without instruction. Thexan’s fingers had curled into claws against the bed, and the muscles in his neck and shoulders stood out in stark relief as he stared unseeing at the ceiling; his mouth was opening and closing, as if he was trying to remember what it was to draw breath but could not manage it.

She did not even stop to think. “You’re alright, you’re alive,” she said, resisting the urge to take his hand in hers; she had no idea how he would respond to physical contact in this state. “Breathe, your Highness, don’t rush yourself. You’ve survived a traumatic injury, and you’re doing well to be awake so soon.”

His face was going red, and for a terrible moment she was worried she hadn’t gotten through to him; but then, something changed. She saw his eyes attempt to focus, saw the way his attention shifted from blind panic to-

\- _her_. “Who...?” he rasped, his voice hoarse and desperate and _frightened_. 

It took every ounce of her strength to fight the need to comfort him. “My name is Ona’la,” she said gently, carefully. “Just relax, you’re safe.”

He made a noise that seemed half sob and half frustrated, suffocated gasp. “I can’t breathe,” he said frantically, and her heart broke. 

Throwing all caution to the wind, she placed her hand on the centre of his chest, the muscles twitching and trembling beneath her palm as he fought the panic attack. It was but the work of a moment to concentrate on the pain beneath the skin, the muscles locked in spasm where the lightsaber had seared through him; with careful focus, she reached out to calm the tension, trying to coax away the worst of the pain. “Yes you can,” she said gently, doing her best to imbue a sense of calm in her words. Her persuasive tricks wouldn’t work on him, but a calming influence might. “Just little breaths to start with- in and out, in and-”

“I can’t _breathe_ ,” he said hysterically, the volume of his voice rising on the last word. 

If someone heard him, if they thought he was shouting in aggression, they’d come charging in with weapons drawn and aggression to match, and she couldn’t allow that. She _wouldn’t_ allow that. “Yes, you _can_ ,” she said firmly, splaying her fingers wide as she gently massaged the taut muscles, encouraging them to relax in the same way she would a cramp in her ribs. “In and out, in and out, just like me. Breathe with me, Thexan.”

For a moment his eyes locked onto her mouth, frustrated and panicked, and she saw him try to mimic the rhythm she set. For a moment, she thought she might have connected with him, and in that moment she began to feel that same certainty she’d felt when the Force had called her to him.

When the med-droid broke that moment by- very helpfully, admittedly- administering a sedative and a pain relief to him, drawing his attention away from her, she hid her flash of frustration while his head was turned away, getting herself back under control by the time he looked back to her. 

Beneath her hand, he was trembling, but less from panic and more from exhaustion, and she could feel his pulse beginning to settle. There was a sigh on his lips, a sound of resignation, and she heard him murmur “How have I come to this place?”

Something in his tone, so utterly without hope, seemed to hint that he hadn’t meant it to be a question for her ears. It seemed the sort of thing one asked oneself, when consumed with the ever rising dread that this was not, in fact, a dream. “You are in private medical quarters aboard a Republic starcruiser,” she said quietly, noting the way he tensed at the sound of her voice. Hard not to notice, really, when her hand still rested over his heart. “The Emperor-” She stumbled slightly, because that felt disingenuous, somehow. “ _Your_ Emperor, not the Sith Emperor- has declared you dead, and a traitor.”

He wasn’t looking at her when he closed his eyes, but he didn’t need to for her to feel the immense and utter sense of grief and despair that flared within him. For all the control he’d had when she’d faced him on the battlefield, he had very little in the way of mental blocks right now. 

He felt like a man broken by the things he had endured.

She let the words hang in the air for a moment, and when he made no move to respond, she continued. “They say you struck out against your father, and your brother defended him.” At the time of his rescue, when Lana had read the words aloud for her since she was still stricken with hibernation blindness, she’d thought the accusation peculiar. With time to think, and now to get a sense of his own emotional turmoil, she was convinced that it was a lie- his wound made no sense for a man attempting an assassination, and the grief and the guilt in him, roiling like a maelstrom, did not give her the impression of a man frustrated by the failure of an attempted coup. 

Still he said nothing. “Is it true?” she asked finally.

She felt the moment when he abandoned all hope. “Yes,” he whispered, his answer so quiet she had to lean in to hear it. 

And there it was, by his own admission- anyone with even a shred of sense in their head would have taken him at his word, because he was already a violent conqueror and already responsible for the deaths of Goddess knows how many innocents across the galaxy, an invader and a tyrant and a murderer. 

But it was a lie; he had _not_ struck out at his father, he had _not_ attempted to harm him, and yet he accepted this version of events as true? There was that certainty again, the pressure of the Force singing through her, and she wanted to shake him and demand the truth from him and demand to know what he was hiding, or what he thought to gain from bearing such an accusation in silence. 

She did not know why it was so important to her that he lied. “What’s wrong?” she asked instead, after awkwardly muddling over what was safe to say. The grief in him disturbed her, if only because she was overcome with the desire to confront it.

His answer broke her heart anew. “I am a mistake,” he said hoarsely, his eyes still closed. “You should have left me where you found me.”

_No one is a mistake_ , she wanted to say, and the fight to keep those words from her lips was extraordinary. “In a kolto tank,” she said softly, “unconscious and forgotten?”

He shuddered, as if he was fighting back tears. “I should have died.”

It was with utter certainty that she reached up to him, turning his face towards her so that he could not avoid the conviction she felt in that moment. His eyes snapped open, grey and blue at the same time, like storm clouds overburdened with the promise of rain, and she knew without a doubt that the connection she had felt earlier had blazed to life again. “You are not dead yet,” she said fiercely, and she felt him swallow down a retort. “And neither am I. I have lost four months of my life, and you have gained them back.”

The moment held, and held, and he stared up at her, his skin warm beneath her palm... and then the moment broke. He shuddered, and tore his gaze away from hers. “ _Don’t,_ ” he snarled, the word almost stuttered; given how intensely he was shaking, it didn’t surprise her. She thought he meant to leave it there, a general warning for her, but he forced more past his lips. “-touch me,” he finished.

To be honest, it was a better response than she’d expected; she still complied immediately, because she would not give him more reasons to resent or distrust her, not if she could help it. His mouth opened as if he meant to gasp, but no sound emerged. She flexed her hand at her side, her skin tingling from the contact with him. “You have been given a second chance,” she said firmly, trying to hide her frustration, “to undo the damage your family has inflicted on the innocent people of this galaxy. If you have truly defied your father, then you must know-”

“You have no idea what I _know_ , Master Jedi.” There was no fire in him, despite the bitterness in the words; if anything, he sounded tired. Not so tired that he hadn’t managed to put two and two together to determine her identity. “Do not presume that your momentary lapse of judgement that you call mercy will suddenly endear you and your cause to me.”

That was more of what she’d been expecting- or rather, what she should have _known_ to expect, but had deluded herself into hoping for more. The certainty in her heart didn’t make the disappointment any less painful to bear. She wasn’t foolish enough to think that her optimism would be seen as anything but naive by the Jedi Council, and downright dangerous by the Republic; she’d already clashed with Saresh on more than one occasion, her determination to seek peace jarring badly with the Supreme Chancellor’s drive to see victory. Both of them wanted safety and security for the people of the galaxy, but Ona’la refused to believe it could only come at gunpoint. 

They were going to take him away- of that, she had no doubt. He was a war criminal, a monster, and she knew nothing she said about what the Force wanted of her would change that. 

“If you do not aid us, Thexan,” she said quietly, not sure if she was begging or warning him, “then you will be imprisoned at best. At worst...”

She couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence. 

“I should have died anyway.” _His_ certainty hurt more than she wanted to admit. “So you have simply delayed the process.”

Ona’la had no answer for that, because she couldn’t promise him that it wasn’t the truth. Saresh would probably delight in the opportunity to conduct a public trial and execution, seeing it as a sign of the Republic’s strength- that they could so easily bring justice to those who had wronged them, that they were not afraid to confront tyrants and conquerors. It wouldn’t matter what she said in his defence. 

She couldn’t stay. Here, in the room, she couldn’t stay in the room, with him, in the room- oh, _Goddess_ , what had she _done_?

She was in tears before the door slid closed behind her, one hand going up to cover her mouth to muffle the sobs; her heart ached, like there was a gaping, aching hole in her chest, and she didn’t know if she was crying because she was a fool or if she was crying because she’d doomed him to death or- or _anything_.

She wanted to believe there was hope, but what by the red sands was she supposed to hope for? For peace? For a ceasefire? For his survival?

“Master Jedi?”

She let out a hideously undignified squeak at the interruption, stumbling backwards a step as she remembered too late that there was a trooper standing on duty outside the door. She was still covering the lower part of her face with her hand, and it was but the work of a moment to quickly smear away the worst of the tears. “Goddess, I am- I’m so sorry, you shouldn’t have had to see me like that-”

“It’s, ah... it’s fine, Battlemaster.” The trooper paused awkwardly, shuffling on the spot. “Are you- is the prisoner causing any issues?”

“It’s fine, it’s alright,” she said, sniffling and wiping her hands down the front of her pants. Such a dignified impression to leave of herself. “He’s awake, I suppose the doctor will want to know and examine him further.”

“I’ll be sure to let Doctor Jobun know,” the trooper said. “He did say that you were free to use the holotransmitter though, whenever you were ready.”

She wiped carefully at her eyes again. “I know, I know, he told me when we stopped I could use it.”

“We _have_ stopped, Master Jedi. We’re at Gerrenthum.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But Defira! Thexan wasn't framed for trying to kill Valkorion, the official story given by Zakuul was that he died in the Core Worlds invasion! And how did Lana and those two imperial agents know how to find Zakuul in the first place? What's going on! 
> 
> ~all will be revealed in time~


	5. Chapter 5

Gerrenthum was a hub of activity at the best of times, but the wild ups and downs of war and peacetime over the last few decades had seen it explode into one of the most prominent locations in the Far Outer Rim. It had the enviable prominence that came from sitting in the nexus of three critical hyperlanes, and the Mandalorian blockade of the Hydian Way nearly twenty five years earlier had seen an extensive amount of trade and traffic rerouted that- even after all this time- had not entirely resettled. Which of course, the business leaders of Gerrenthum’s community were more than happy to encourage and exploit. 

It had seemingly been just sheer dumb luck that had seen the Eternal Empire surge straight past them in their pursuit to strike deeper into the Core worlds. It was, to all intents and purposes, just as tantalizing a target as Eriadu- a predominantly urban and industrialized world built on the profit of their convenient location.

Just another thing about the invasion and withdrawal that made utterly no sense. 

Just another thing that she’d be trying to coax out of Thexan, if he ever decided to talk to her again. 

Ona’la sat in Doctor Jobun’s office, quietly numb as she listened to the general chatter on the sector channels; Gerrenthum was awash with Republic and Imperial ships both, jumping in and out of hyperspace in all directions as they raced to respond to the distress calls. Some of the long range chatter seemed to indicate that the first ships had made it to the site of the battle, a starscape strewn with broken ships and wreckage, but no one had any word on survivors or escape pods yet. The local channels seemed to be rife with grandstanding and posturing, the sort of passive aggressive mockery that came from two long time adversaries unsure as to whether the awkward truce still held now that the Allied Fleet was gone. It was a powder keg, and all it would take was the smallest spark to ignite it all into pitched warfare. 

She’d met Darth Marr, during the recent operations on Rishi and Yavin 4, when she and Grand Master Satele had almost been drawn into the bloody dogfight over the skies of Rishi. For all that he was a Sith Lord, he’d seemed a sensible sort, and even Scourge had begrudgingly acknowledged him- which, in itself, told her everything she needed to know about his character. Darth Nox on the other hand... she’d not ever had a conversation with the woman, but she’d seen the fruits of her labour across the galaxy, the trail of carnage she’d left in her wake as she’d stormed to power. She’d been present on Yavin 4 during the final campaign against the False Revan, and the only word that could adequately describe her during those few times they’d crossed paths in the Allied camp was _feral_. She was wild, almost gleefully cruel and unashamedly decadent, a true Dark Lord in every sense of the name. The power of the Dark Side slithered and seethed around her, like a living cloak of darkness, and Ona’la had made it a point to avoid her. 

She still couldn’t find it in herself to think of either of their deaths as a triumph- Darth Marr had done a great many things to stabilise the Empire in the last few years, and she could appreciate his taciturn bluntness, if nothing else. Darth Nox... well. Her death would create a power vacuum amongst the Sith, and that was never good. And Lana had seemed inordinately fond of her, and Ona’la couldn’t help but wonder whether Lana had needed to gamble her rescue against Darth Nox’s survival. 

Was that why she’d handed her over to the first available Republic craft- had she immediately turned around to race to the battle? Had she delayed them by insisting on rescuing Thexan, and Lana had arrived only to find wreckage and ruin instead of the woman she... loved? Was it love? Lord Beniko had seemed so reserved and so level-headed during their interactions these last few months, so utterly at odds with the aggression and the charismatic egotism of Darth Nox. 

They were as different and as mutually deadly as the Nightlands and the Brightlands she remembered in the haziest memories she had of her childhood- one cold and silent and sharp, the other burning and fierce and raging with violent storms. Both could- and _would_ \- kill you, two halves of a greater whole. 

To think that Lana might have been forced to sacrifice any chance of saving the woman who made her shine so brightly... Ona’la didn’t want to think about it, but the possibility was there, gnawing away at her conscience as the guilt slowly poisoned her. 

She put a hand up to her forehead, feeling an ache build; her head always ached after she'd cried, and today had not precisely been the easiest day to begin with. 

There was nothing on the local chatter to indicate that Lana was in the area, and after listening for a time, Ona'la knew she was just making herself feel worse by clinging to the hope. She had no forward contact for Lord Beniko, no way to reach her directly- even had she not just endured four months of absence from the galactic stage, she would have struggled to get a message through to her. In the middle of a new war, with the Empire in turmoil from the loss of two such prominent figureheads? Tracking her down would be all but impossible.

And that was assuming that Lana would even _want_ to talk to her, if her suspicions were true. She couldn’t even imagine the grief she would be going through right now.

They were acquaintances. Very barely friends.

Not the sort you risked your life and sacrificed the life of your loved one to save. 

When she realised she was crying again, the tears sliding quietly down her cheeks, she sighed in frustration and got up from the desk; being a doctor’s office, there was the inevitable sink and sanitising station along the back wall despite it being an administration room, and she turned on the water with a brief wave of her hand. She cupped her hands beneath the cool stream, splashing it on her face after a moment and letting the mild shock of the cold settle her nerves a little. She fumbled about for disposable towels, half blind as she blinked the droplets out of her eyes; the tears had eased by the time she was done, and while she didn’t precisely feel _good_ , she didn’t exactly feel _bad_ either. 

It was something. 

Setting aside the towel and smoothing her hands down over her stomach, she took a moment to close her eyes and seek the balance within her, to soothe it back into place. After so many years of practice, it was the work of half a minute to centre herself again, calm and quiet within; so many people mistook her pursuit of harmony as a sign of negligence of her own emotional fragility. She’d lost count of the number of times she’d been called frigid or uncaring for not succumbing to her wilder emotions in times of great upheaval, or the times she’d been called weak and cowardly for not indulging the darker passions within her. 

Sometimes it was hurtful, for those around her to assume she did not feel and did not hurt and did not bleed the same way they did- that they thought it was a weakness on her part that she did not indulge in anger and violence when pressed. It was far more difficult to maintain a course of peace and optimism than it was to succumb to fury. 

She felt lighter once she opened her eyes again, not happy because happiness was something in short supply these days, but definitely calmer. Peaceful- that was the best word for it. She felt peaceful.

Settling herself back down at the desk, she activated the private console and keyed in the appropriate codes to connect her through to the Jedi Council- or, more specifically, to Satele. There was every possibility that, given they were perched on the brink of war, the codes might have been changed in the last four months. She had a brief bubble of longing in her for T7, or Kira- either one of them would have laughed at her cumbersome attempts at slicing and would have nudged her gently aside to do the work for her- but with each code she entered, she passed through another security lock, and then another, and then...

... and then the terminal connected. 

For a moment, there was nothing but static as the connection settled over the long distance, and she found herself holding her breath. Then the static cleared, resolving into the clear blue glowing outline of a heartbreakingly familiar figure. 

So much for not crying. 

She took a shaky breath. “Grand Master Shan,” she said, her voice wobbling treacherously. “I can’t say what a relief it is to see your face.”

The blue figure hovering above the holotransmitter had lifted a hand up to her mouth, as if in shock; it was impossible to make out the finer details of her expression with over ten thousand lightyears of space between them to muddle the reception, but she liked to think those were tears in her eyes as well. “Battlemaster,” she began, a somewhat awed tone to her voice, but then she shook herself firmly. “Ona’la,” she corrected herself, stating her name more confidently. “The feeling is mutual, my dear.”

Ona’la let out a shaky laugh, wiping away the tears that had gathered with the pad of her thumb. “I- honestly, I had planned out a very serious conversation, but this is...” 

Satele’s laugh matched hers. “It’s alright, I understand,” she said. “We’d heard rumours in the last day or so, that you were alive, and- well. I’ve lost so many friends and loved ones to these wars, at some point it just becomes safer not to hope.”

“I can’t say that I blame you for that.”

“I never lost faith in you, my dear- don’t mistake that. I have every faith in you and your abilities, I simply know better than to pin my hopes on a miracle.” Her smile was sad. “You came back to us from the dead once already, it seemed far too selfish to beg for another.” 

Ona’la shrugged awkwardly. “I seem to be blessed with far more than my share of luck,” she said, at a loss for anything else to say.

“There’s nothing about it that can be attributed to luck- the Force still has a purpose for you, and we must have faith that that purpose will be made clear in time.”

Well. That was certainly the best opening she was likely to have to break the news. “I believe it already has,” she said hesitantly, and when Satele merely raised her eyebrows- goddess, but she looked so much like Theron when she did that- she continued. “I don’t know the specifics of my rescue, at this point in time, but during the escape I felt... an impression.”

“Tell me.”

She took a deep breath. “I was retrieved by Lord Beniko, the Sith Lord we met on Rishi and Yavin 4, if you recall?”

“I remember her. A competent duellist. I appreciated some of her more level-headed counsel.”

Ona’la bit down the smile at the not quite so subtle jab at the input of the other Sith who had agreed to the tentative alliance. “I don’t know the particulars of my rescue- I believe she was accompanied by at least one Imperial operative, but I’m not sure. The hibernation blindness lingered for several hours, and I never had a chance to see them clearly.”

“Interesting.” Satele had one hand beneath her chin, the other hand holding to her elbow as her brow furrowed in thought. “We’ve had a vague understanding of the region of space Zakuul lay in, but nothing specific. For her to not only know how to find Zakuul, but to also have an understanding of their technology and how to find you on the entirety of the planet... this is troubling.”

“Grand Master?”

“It would be one thing for the Sith to be withholding critical information from us on the whereabouts of an enemy, even in the face of our Alliance,” Satele said. “It’s another thing entirely for the Minister for Sith Intelligence to apparently keep such information even from the Dark Council.”

Ona’la’s stomach fluttered uneasily. “What makes you think she kept it from the Dark Council?”

Satele’s smile was grim. “As formidable a pair as Darth Marr and Darth Nox make together, they were vastly underprepared for what they faced out in Wild Space. Even in their most egotistical assumptions, they would have been sensible enough not to take the gamble they did, had they known what they faced.”

She felt like she’d swallowed a stone- so Kallathe’s death could have been prevented, but Lana had opted to save her instead? “So they’re definitely dead?” she asked hoarsely.

“We’ve had no word of them amongst the survivors found so far, and Darth Marr’s flagship was completely destroyed during the conflict. So far there’s been no sign of Darth Nox’s personal cruiser.”

“That doesn’t sound like a yes.”

Satele sighed, looking intensely weary. “There’s been no... impact, is the word I’m looking for. When someone as powerful in the Force as they were passes, there are ripples. As of yet, there’s been nothing significant, but the last communications anyone had from them indicated they were still on Darth Marr’s flagship at the time it collided with the one of the Eternal Empire’s destroyers.”

Something prodded at her. “Is that how someone knew I was still alive?”

“That is a remarkable mystery, now that you mention it. There was so much chaos in the weeks before and after your capture, so many fluctuations from the ongoing battles, it was all but impossible to get a sense of you. Miss Carsen was utterly distraught for weeks, and it was difficult convincing her there was no fault on her part for being unable to find you.”

The words hit her like a rockfall, and Ona’la closed her eyes immediately as she felt tears well anew. “Kira’s alive?” she said hoarsely, unaware until that exact moment just how terrified she’d been at the prospect of her being dead. She fought to keep the tears from spilling over, but it was too much- she felt her face crumple and she quickly put a hand up to cover the worst of her breakdown from Satele’s quiet gaze. 

“She is,” Satele said gently, no censure in her tone. “Your crew were responsible for the safe evacuation of thousands of civilians who would otherwise have been at the mercy of the Eternal Empire. They conducted themselves in a fashion that was not just a credit to themselves and the Republic, but a credit to you as well.”

Ona’la tried to respond, but a few long moments it was far too much to try and work the words past the sobs. Satele waited patiently for her to wind down again, and after half a minute she had managed to fight it back to painful hiccups, the storm of weeping leaving her shuddering and weak. “And they’re-” She winced at how raw her voice sounded. “They’re safe?”

“They are- although they do not travel together at this point. Sergeant Rusk was reassigned to another division and has been serving on front line planets directly impacted by the invasion- I’m not sure of his precise location at this moment, but it’s hardly classified information, so we could find it with little difficulty if you were desperate to know.”

Ona’la sniffed inelegantly and gestured for her to continue, wiping at her eyes with the corner of her sleeve.

“Kira retained ownership of your ship for the time being, and both T7 and Doctor Kimble elected to travel with her- for the most part she has gone where the Council has required her, helping to stabilize certain regions in the aftermath of the Eternal Empire’s attacks. She has been a committed- if somewhat erratic- force both on the battlefield and in diplomatic quarters.”

Ona’la laughed weakly. “She always had a temper,” she said quietly. “I’m glad to hear it hasn’t gotten the best of her in my absence.”

“She’s a challenge at times, I’ll not deny that- I’m quietly relieved that Master Kiwiiks seems to be her security blanket on the more difficult days.” 

They shared a fond smile at that, and Ona’la took a moment to lean back and snatch the disposable towel from the counter behind her, gently patting her face down again. “I almost hesitate to ask, but... Lord Scourge?”

Satele’s demeanour changed ever so subtly, just the slightest tension settling over her shoulders; if Ona’la hadn’t come to know her as well as she had these last few years, she might have missed it entirely. “Lord Scourge remains on our watch list, and he is aware of this,” she said frankly. “He was arrogant enough to suggest that he might be of use teaching sith techniques to the young ones, and we very firmly impressed to him that that was not an option we wished to explore. He is...” She grimaced slightly. “Currently unaccounted for, but we believe him to be on Dromund Kaas. He comes and goes as he sees fit.”

“I’m surprised he has the leave to do so.”

“We’ve made our recommendations to the SIS, and they monitor him, but so far he has not proved an active threat. And, as he is so eager to remind us at every opportunity, he _did_ provide invaluable support in trying to destroy Emperor Vitiate.”

Ona’la closed her eyes as she considered her next words carefully, trying to gauge whether she spoke them from a place of honesty or a place of malice. “I would...” She let out a slow breath, trying to keep her balance. “I would be remiss if I did not mention that Lord Scourge has previously threatened to abscond with Force-sensitive children, with the intention of seeing them raised as Sith. I think the decision by the Council to reject his offer of teaching younglings was well founded.”

When she opened her eyes again, Satele was watching her seriously. “When was this?” she asked bluntly, when she saw that Ona’la was looking at her again.

“Several months ago, perhaps a year? I’ve not adjusted well to the time I’ve lost yet.”

Satele was silent for a moment, as if turning the words over in her head for judgement. “And did he single anyone out, that we should be aware of?” she said, and from her tone Ona’la could tell that she’d already guessed at the specific nature of Scourge’s threats.

Ona’la winced. “Only theoretical children, I’m afraid,” she said. “As much as I adore working with the younglings in the temple, I do not think such a path is intended for myself.”

“We would make arrangements,” Satele said abruptly, her expression intense. “If the situation no longer became theoretical, you would be safe. You and your child. Of that, you have my word.”

For a moment, Ona’la could only gape, her mouth working as she attempted to find a string of words that would possibly pass as an adequate response. “I... that is-”

“Theoretical, I know.” Satele sighed. “Just consider it an old woman’s need to fuss.” She clasped her hands before her. “There is nothing more frightening than finding yourself in need of- in such a condition, I should say, and not knowing where it is safe to turn. As Jedi, and especially in times of war, we have precious few places we can consider truly safe- please, Ona’la, _always_ remember that you can find safe harbour with myself.” 

“Well, I...” She swallowed down the emotions bubbling up in her throat. “I truly appreciate that, Satele. That, at least, isn’t theoretical.”

They shared a moment of laughter, quiet and gentle, and Ona’la felt significantly more at ease than she had earlier. “I’ll speak to the SIS and see that Scourge is monitored more closely,” Satele said. “And of course, you are welcome to continue your dealings with him if you see fit, but I’ll be speaking to the other members of the Council about ensuring that he is no longer offered the hospitality of our Order. I do not take such threats lightly, and whether the children in question are purely speculative or not, I still do not appreciate the people under my leadership being subject to such emotional scare tactics.”

“I’ll... I’ll keep that in mind.” She took a deep breath. “Thank you, Satele.”

Satele made a waving motion with her hand, as if dismissing the topic. “Please, think nothing of it. Certainly let’s not continue down such a maudlin path, or I’ll make myself embarrassingly weepy. I can’t imagine what our enemies would say were they to tap into our comms to find me tearful over discussions of children and pregnancies.” 

Ona’la smiled wryly. “Watch yourself, or you’ll find a new generation of younglings mysteriously calling you Grandmother instead of Grand Master.”

“Your sweet demeanour isn’t fooling me, young lady,” Satele said with mock grimness. “But come now, I doubt your captain will be patient enough to linger while we gossip like Core World senators. It will be several weeks until you return to us, please just rest while you can, and we can catch up in person.”

She had to say it- she had to tell her. She couldn’t let them find out when they arrived in Coruscant who she had on board with her, if Captain Athalast hadn’t already made contact with Republic Strategic High Command herself. 

“Satele,” she said, forcing herself to look at her and not at her hands in her lap. Her fingers twisted together nervously, and she gave up on trying to stop fidgeting. “There is something else. _Someone_ else.”

Satele simply raised her eyebrows, and waited.

There was nothing else for it. “If you recall, I said earlier that during my rescue from Zakuul, I felt an impression. A certainty, like nothing I have felt before, and I knew the Force was moving through me and guiding me with a strength I have never before experienced.”

“It is good that you chose to trust in the Force- it is all too easy to let our own doubts and fears overwhelm us in critical moments such as those.” Satele’s expression revealed nothing. “Go on, then.”

Ona’la licked suddenly dry lips. “I was still afflicted with hibernation blindness, and could only give instructions to Lord Beniko and her accomplice as to what felt right. We found ourselves in a room deep within the facility I was held in- I’m not sure whether it was a converted storage room or whether it was truly a medical suite- but there was a man in there. In a kolto tank, I mean. Unconscious and slowly dying from lack of care.”

She was babbling, she knew she was babbling, and she bit her lip.

Satele nodded. “The Force led you to him, that much is clear,” she said solemnly. “But I take it from your significant attempts to stall and hesitate, that I am not likely to appreciate his identity.”

Ona’la took a deep breath. “It was Prince Thexan,” she said quietly, the words a thousand times more painful to say to Satele than they had been to say to Captain Athalast. “One of the twin conquerors I faced on Eriadu, who led their armies.”

“You saved the very man who felled you.” Satele’s words cut straight to the bone, and Ona’la tried not to wince. “Have you had time to meditate on what the Force was trying to achieve through you?”

“I have not,” she said, all but whispering it. “And believe me, I have been consumed by nothing but doubt and confusion ever since I awoke.”

Satele was silent for several agonisingly long moments, her hand back beneath her chin as she came to her own decision about the news. “Do you know how he came to be in such a state?” she asked finally.

“I do, though I do not believe it.”

“Oh?”

“Lord Beniko downloaded the datafiles that were in the kolto tank’s computers- it claimed he had attempted to assassinate his father, and his brother had struck him down in the ensuing fight.”

“And you do not believe this to be true.”

Ona’la lifted her chin, certain at least of this much. “It is _not_ true, absolutely not. There are inconsistencies as to the nature of his injuries, his fighting style as I observed it on Eriadu should not have allowed for such an opening, not to mention there is an utter lack of ambition or pride in him-”

“A man may kill an Emperor for more than just lust for power, Ona’la,” Satele said warningly. “You of all people should know that.”

“I _do_ know that,” Ona’la said, “which is why I know that he did not strike out at his father.”

Satele watched her carefully for a few painful seconds, and then nodded slowly. “Very well,” she said finally. “You realise, of course, that this will bring enormous scrutiny down upon you once again.”

She didn’t need to say _just like after Uphrades_ for Ona’la to know what she meant. “I am very well aware of that,” she said softly. “And I do not know for what purpose I have saved him- it may very well be that I am simply a guardian until he can be taken into the proper care of Republic authority.”

Her stomach immediately seethed unhappily at the notion.

“Whatever the reasoning behind it, I choose to place my faith in the Force. I trust in the certainty I felt when it called me to him, and I will see this through until such a time as I am no longer required.” She swallowed nervously. “Whether that be unto his death, or judgement, or his salvation, I will see it through. It is my duty to serve in the light, and bring that light unto others.” 

She saw a measure of tension bleed away from Satele’s shoulders, not quite relaxed but not quite so strained. “You have a good heart, Battlemaster,” she said, “and I have great hope for the future of the Order with women like you amongst our number.”

Ona’la blinked in surprise at the unexpected compliment. “I... thank you, Grand Master,” she said awkwardly. “I am only as good as my teachers, though, and I have certainly been blessed in that regard.” 

“I’m going to guess that you picked up your attempts at charm and flattery from Orgus,” Satele said wryly. “One last thing before you go- is the prince awake?”

“He has been,” Ona’la said, trying not to let the dismay creep in again. “He may be asleep again, I’m not sure. But I have spoken to him.”

“Then please listen to me when I say this, Ona’la- _do not_ , under any circumstances, trust him. The Force may have led you to him, but the reasons for that are currently nebulous, and he is a dangerously powerful man who has conducted unwarranted acts of aggression against military and civilian targets both. I know you are determined to see the best in people regardless of character, but please, for your own safety, _do not_ trust him.” 

A retort rose up immediately on her tongue, a desire to defend him so fierce that it surprised even her; she had no reason to defend Thexan, and she certainly had no interest in brushing aside the severity of his crimes. He was a war criminal, that was completely undisputed- and yet the Force had led her to him, and surely the Force would not have wound her fate so tightly around a man with no hope of redemption. Surely she would not be bound to the life of yet another unforgivable monster. 

“Ona’la?”

“I promise, Grand Master,” she said softly, and tried to convince herself it was not necessarily a lie. “I will take every precaution with him until we reach Coruscant.”

Satele visibly relaxed. “Thank you, my dear. I appreciate that.” When Ona’la did not immediately respond, Satele continued. “Do you have anything you’d like to have seen to before your arrival? Have you spoken to Republic Strategic High Command yet?”

Ona’la shook herself. “No, they were next on my list,” she said. “I don’t know if the codes I have will get me through to Saresh, but-”

“Hers have changed recently, give me one moment.” Satele turned to a keyboard set slightly out of the glow of the holotransmitter and typed in silence for a few moments. “There. You should have the appropriate clearance codes now.”

A little icon blinked warmly in the corner of the display to indicate the files had indeed arrived. “My thanks, Grand Master.”

“No thanks necessary, Battlemaster.” Satele straightened, and smiled. “Just get home safe to us.”

The holotransmitter disconnected and Ona’la sat in the silence for a few long minutes, soaking in the comfort of hearing a friend’s voice. Things did not seem quite so hopeless, knowing that she had allies and friends in her corner.

But she didn’t have all the time in the world- the calculations for the jump along the Trade Spine would be lengthy, but the hyperroute was well marked and easy to traverse. She couldn’t sit about being maudlin and making personal calls, not when so much was hanging on her return and the man she brought with her. She still had to call Saresh, and Republic Strategic High Command, and the Barsen’thor...

Instead she found herself typing in quite a different set of codes, rerouting the channel to connect with a personal communicator registered on Coruscant. 

Like with Satele’s comm, it took a few long seconds to connect properly, static crackling over the distance; when it flared to life, blue and sharp, she saw a familiar figure slouched in a chair, datapad in hand as he absently answered the call. “Y’ello?” he said, flicking down the datapad and picking up the mug he’d clearly set aside to activate the comm unit.

Ona’la smiled. “Hello, Theron,” she said. 

Theron lurched upright so fast he nearly slid off the chair he was sitting in, and for a moment it made Ona’la smile to see. “Kriff, _Ona’la_? Is that really you?”

“It’s really me, Theron,” she said, smiling wanly. 

The stunned look of relief on his face was actually quite flattering, and it made her feel a little more comfortable. “I didn’t think it was- _kriff_ , I can’t believe it’s _you_. Well I mean, I _should_ believe it because it’s not like it’s the first time you’ve died and it didn’t stick.”

She closed her eyes at the reminder. “It would’ve been more pleasant to have actually died both times, I think,” she said. “Torture and imprisonment for months isn’t precisely all that fun.”

“Ouch.” Theron winced. “Well now it’s just awkward.”

“I thought I recalled you saying that that was what you excelled at, Theron.”

He sighed dramatically. “True, true,” he said, rubbing at his face. After a moment, he laughed shakily. “Kriff, though, I can’t believe it’s you. It’s just- it’s been hard. With you gone, I mean.”

Ona’la smiled sadly. “It was hard to be gone, trust me.” She waited a beat. “Theron, I need a favour.”

“Anything. Well, wait no, I probably shouldn’t say anything because knowing you it’ll be something-”

“I need to get in contact with Lana.”


	6. Chapter 6

The journey back to the core was intended to take a little over fifteen days, according to the cheerful message read over the ship’s internal comms by First Officer Zhen. Fifteen days in hyperspace, with no sensible means of escaping from the confines of the ship- this was probably her best chance of getting through to Thexan and getting him to confess to what had truly happened to have him hidden away like a shameful secret. 

Alternatively, it was very possible he might choose to ignore her for the entirety of the three weeks, which she certainly wouldn’t blame him for. She’d spent a great deal of time trying to avoid Doctor Kimble when he’d first signed on as her staff doctor, because she’d found his relentless attempts at flirtation bewildered her to tears on some occasions. Archiban was an excellent physician- she wouldn’t have accepted him onboard if it wasn’t the case- but his insistent sexual overtures were bizarre and frustrating. He’d eased up on trying to woo her over time, but she’d never been able to convince him to drop the endless number of endearments he used in place of her name. She didn’t know whether it was because she was a twi’lek- because even as a Jedi she faced more than her share of the usual lewdness and bigotry- or whether it was simply because it was the only way he knew how to relate to women. 

Which was of course a roundabout, rambling way of acknowledging that she knew the lengths a person could go to to avoid spending time with someone, even trapped in the confines of a starship together. Granted, she’d not been a political prisoner on her ship, and had had the luxury of retreating to her private quarters when it all got too much; she couldn’t really say the same for Thexan. 

She could offer him kindness and compassion, if not sympathy. He was still a war criminal, regardless of what else he might be; at least, that was what she told herself firmly as she stood outside his door, holding a tray of food from the mess and trying to work up the courage to step inside. She had no reason to fear him, not if she placed her trust in the Force- her strength in the light had been her shield and her shelter when she’d been bound by Vitiate not so many years ago. 

If she could stand strong against a tyrannical monster with no trace of humanity left in him, she could certainly spend time in the company of an injured prince. 

She had the lock sequence for the door now, grudgingly handed over to her by the Security Chief when she’d met with him earlier and made her case for being allowed the freedom to come and go from Thexan’s quarters. It had been all but impossible to get him to back down over the presence of the armoured trooper, but at least she’d managed to argue for them to be stationed in the main room of the medical bay, and not at the end of the hallway lurking outside of Thexan’s room.

She’d ensured him privacy and comfort, and she’d saved his life. Surely that was going to count for something eventually. 

Taking a deep breath, she balanced the tray in one hand and quickly keyed in the code; once it beeped cheerfully the first time, she pressed her thumb firmly to the flat of the scanner, waiting until it beeped a second time. With a slight hiss as the vacuum seals disengaged, the door slid open and a burst of cool air rushed over her skin. The lights were pleasantly dim, but not so much that she couldn’t see, and the room beyond was quiet but for the gentle hum of the medical monitors. 

Thexan wasn’t asleep- that much was abundantly clear. He tensed ever so slightly when the door opened, not enough to suggest that he was ready to lunge from the bed and attack her, but more like... more like he was cringing ever so slightly away from her. And more than that, she could sense his awareness, the sharp edge of his powers no less impressive for all that they were muted and quiet now. 

He was lying on his side, slightly curled in on himself, as if he was trying to protect the scar on his stomach. He didn’t watch her as she crossed the room, but when she sat down at his bedside, sliding the tray onto the side-table, he didn’t look away either, even though she was sitting in his line of sight. 

“I thought you might be hungry,” she said, gesturing to the tray. “It’s nothing fancy, but it’s better for your stomach not to eat rich foods while you’re recovering from extensive periods of deprivation.”

His eyes flickered to the tray briefly, and then settled back on her. Otherwise he didn’t move. 

She waited for a few beats to see if he was inclined to answer, and then sighed internally. “Are you in any pain at the moment?” she enquired gently. “You’ve made remarkable headway on your recovery so far, but if you’re suffering at all, you only need ask.” 

He still didn’t answer. 

It took almost the entirety of her patience to keep her smile on her face. “Thexan,” she began.

“What do you want with me?” he asked, his voice still rough from lack of use. 

It wasn’t as petulant as it could have been, really; mostly the strongest sense she got of him in that moment was exhaustion, and frustration. “I _would_ like you to eat,” she said honestly, trying not to grin at the withering look he aimed at her. “What? That’s an answer.”

“Are all Jedi so resolutely obtuse, or was I just unfortunate enough to be retrieved by the most imperceptive fool in the Order?”

She felt her face heat a little at the mockery, the warmth travelling down the curve of her lekku; they curled up close to her back, and it took a moment of concentration to get them to relax. “I prefer to consider it as willfully determined,” she said calmly. “And I certainly wouldn’t be alive without such a trait.”

“If that were the case, then perhaps I might have been spared from your misplaced enthusiasm and woefully irrelevant sense of nobility.”

Ona’la breathed out firmly through her nose, her lips quirking with the urge to scowl at him; she kept her face calm only with extreme effort. “I realise you are only interested in baiting me in the hope of dissuading me or provoking me to anger,” she said patiently, “but I’m only here to help you, Thexan.”

“I don’t _want_ your help,” he said sullenly.

Her lekku twitched irritably. “So are you going to lie there until you die of starvation?” she asked. She’d had plenty of experience dealing with petulant children in her years in the temple, and until she’d been gently encouraged to go through with her trials, she’d been content to stay and be a teacher and guardian for the younglings indefinitely. How life had a way of surprising you- if you’d asked her ten years earlier if she’d think there was any possibility of her being Battlemaster of the Order, and a member of the Jedi Council, she would have laughed incredulously. 

She also wouldn’t have thought that the lessons she learned in the care of nervous children, struggling to deal with their separation from home and their occasionally terrifying control over the Force, would come into practice when dealing with a moody enemy prince. 

His expression was slightly abashed as her words sunk in. “I’m supposed to be dead anyway,” he said quietly.

“By all means then, if you’re supposed to be dead, I can speak to the doctor now about ceasing your pain medication. That will speed things along, don’t you think?”

Thexan’s eyes widened slightly. “You’re a Jedi- aren’t you supposed to protect all life as some sort of sacred duty?”

She raised her tattooed eyebrows. “You just told me you desired death, Thexan, so it would only be polite of me to facilitate you. You’ve rejected the food I brought you, and my help, so if death is what you seek, then it’s my duty to aid you.”

If he called her bluff, she was going to lose whatever standing she had in his eyes, but she’d played this game often enough with errant, overpowered younglings to hope it played out how she expected. She held his gaze, her expression calm and her hands folded in her lap, and she watched the gears slowly tick over in his head. 

She saw the moment when his resistance crumbled, and managed to refrain from smiling in triumph. “I don’t want to die,” he mumbled petulantly, his gaze dropping from hers. “I’m just supposed to be dead.”

“You’ve said that several times now,” she said. “What exactly happened that led you to believe you should be dead?”

It was a leading question, in the hope that he wouldn’t just grunt a surly ‘yes or no’ answer. She wasn’t precisely expecting him to relent and confide in her so quickly, but it helped no one if she simply made assumptions rather than just engaging with him. 

“Maybe it was the lightsaber that sliced through my body that made me think it,” he said flatly, as if he was speaking to a child. Interesting, considering the approach she’d been taking with him. 

“Your brother’s lightsaber?”

The grief and the fear that flared wildly within him was a dead giveaway, even if he chose to deny it. “Yes,” he whispered after a long moment, surprising her with his willingness to answer.

“And why did your brother have the opportunity or the cause to justify your attempted murder?”

He tensed again, his hand curling slightly into a fist where it rested by his stomach. “I don’t-” He closed his eyes, swallowing nervously. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Well that wasn’t _precisely_ a dead end, and it was a little more than she’d been expecting from him; she quelled the disappointment in her and sat forward in the chair. “Would you like to eat a little? There’s some soup, and a few sugar grain bars. They’ll be a good start for you to work up to eating properly.”

He still had an IV line in his arm, just like she’d had when she’d woken earlier, and at the very least it would keep him hydrated and vaguely stable, but it wasn’t enough. He needed to eat, and she didn’t want to have rescued him only to watch him waste away in her care. 

His eyes opened enough for him to glance at the food, as if he was considering it. “I’m not hungry,” he said after a moment. She had to wonder whether the petulance was truly a part of his nature- which wouldn’t be surprising, all things considered- or whether it was simply a knee jerk reaction to her and his situation. 

“Are you not hungry at all, or just not interested in the food here?”

“Why must you ask so many incessant questions?” he snapped instead, his voice teetering right on the edge of desperately frustrated. 

“Because I’m trying to take care of you,” she answered patiently, because as irritating as his skittishness was, it was perfectly understandable. A wounded animal cornered would lash out in a desperate last attempt for freedom- _do not trust him_ , Satele had said. He hadn’t made any moves against her or the crew yet, but... 

She didn’t want to think it was brewing. She wanted to hope it wouldn’t come to that.

“Why?”

She shook herself from her musings, smiling wryly despite herself. “Seems to me that you are also guilty of incessant questioning,” she said, the jab gentle but pointed. 

He made a noise of frustration and turned his face further into the pillow. “Why are you doing this to me?” he said. “You could have just left me there. You _should_ have just left me there.”

There was so much self loathing and grief wrapped up in those words, so much raw and ugly pain, that for a moment she could barely breathe from the intensity of it. She reached out then, hurting for him, and put her hand over his where it rested on the bed. “Thexan,” she began again.

As before, he cut her off. “I told you not to touch me,” he said, though there was no fire in the words, nothing but weariness and frustration. 

Ona’la sat back immediately, taking her hand very pointedly away from contact with him and settling it back in her lap. “You’re right, you did,” she said. “I apologise. That was exceedingly rude of me, I’m sorry Thexan.”

His eyes closed again and he almost seemed to be in pain, but she couldn’t get a fix on his emotions; it was a wild flux, a storm of hate and anger and sadness and longing and fear and grief all roiling together in a painful mess. For all that he’d stood so cold and so indomitable on the battlefield, he was utterly incapable of keeping himself locked away now. 

She wanted to comfort him, because she couldn’t sit so close to someone struggling under the weight of so much pain and not want to reach out to them; his rejection of her aid was unsurprising, but each new limitation he insisted upon made it harder for her to find avenues with which to reach him. 

“Why do you believe it would be better if you were dead?” she asked quietly, keeping her hands firmly in her lap.

There was a flicker of an expression on his face, as if he’d tried his best not to cringe. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he said, with that same weariness. 

“Alright then,” she said, considering her options. Really, he was far chattier than she’d been expecting of him, so even this small amount that she’d gleaned from him was a start. “Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable, or anything you’d like to know? About myself, about the ship-”

“I’d like to know why you’ve adopted me as your pet project,” he said; there was no venom in his tone, and he half mumbled it into the pillow. “And why I don’t have a say in the matter.”

“A political prisoner rarely has-”

“That’s _not_ what I mean, and you know it.” He opened his eyes and stared at her, his grey eyes a storm within themselves. “Whatever your Republic wants to do with me has nothing to do with your choices so far- if I was merely a political prisoner, I would have been in some sort of brig the moment I was stable. The fact that I’m still unbound and subjected to your relentless optimism that we’ll be best of friends says far more about your intentions than whatever your government intends for me.”

He was talking- she had to keep him talking. Who knew what he might let slip if she coaxed him into letting his guard down? “The Republic is aware that I have you in custody,” she said carefully, “but you are not the Republic’s prisoner, Thexan. You are-”

He turned his face into the pillow fully and she heard a muffled shout of frustration. “Stop calling me by my name!” he snarled when he pulled the pillow away again. “We aren’t friends, we aren’t allies, you haven’t earned the right to call me by my name!”

Ona’la watched him patiently, waiting for him to settle again, watching his chest and his mouth to see that he kept breathing and didn’t succumb to another panic attack like he had in their first conversation. Once he appeared to have calmed sufficiently, she continued as if he hadn’t interrupted her at all. “You are, if anything, my guest,” she said calmly, “and I intend to see that you are treated as a guest.”

“ _Why?_ ”

Perhaps it was the agonised confusion in that one word that tipped her over the edge, or perhaps it was another nudge in the direction she needed to go. “The Force led me to you, and I do not believe our paths would be so entwined if I was leading you to your death, or if there was not a greater purpose behind it all.”

He groaned and rolled onto his back, putting a hand up to cover his eyes. “You sound like a fucking scion,” he said.

That caught her attention, and she frowned slightly. “What’s a scion?”

“Nothing that matters now,” he said, keeping his hand over his face. The sheet on the bed had been tugged lower with all of his tossing and turning, and it sat low across his hips, exposing the terrible scarring on his torso to her eyes once again. 

She bit back a sigh of frustration at his mulishness, and opened her mouth to press him further on the matter...

... and stopped when she felt a peculiar sort of wrenching lurch in her stomach, her head spinning as if she’d suddenly stood up too quickly from sleep. There was- not a _wrongness_ , per se, but a shift, a huge and unsettling disturbance that left her feeling off balance and unsettled. 

“What did you do?”

At the suspicious edge to Thexan’s voice, Ona’la looked up at him, only to find him watching her as if he was expecting her to attack him. “You can _feel_ that?” she asked incredulously.

“Somewhat- it’s faint. I assumed you were trying to do something without my notice.”

She swallowed, blinking as she tried to get her balance back, trying to get the seething confusion in her under control. “I think...” She tried to focus on the disturbance, slowly getting a better sense of what had caused it. She took a shuddering breath. “I think Darth Marr is dead.”

Once she’d said it aloud, it became undeniable- she could all but feel the crackle of electricity on her tongue, the sense of something vast and malevolent and eternal wrapped around him. The Force was reeling from the murder of a powerful Sith, and the ripples were touching her even in the limitless beyond of hyperspace. 

Darth Marr was dead. He’d survived the destruction of the Allied Fleet, but now...

She tried to draw back, away from the muddling confusion his absence had caused as the Force settled back into place, trying instead to focus on the impression she’d had of something looming over him. In that moment between life and death, when Marr’s essence had joined the living Force, there had been...

“ _Vitiate_ ,” she whispered, her blood running cold.

“What?”

She blinked and tried to focus on the moment at hand, on Thexan staring at her with unmasked suspicion in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said, smoothing her hands over her stomach and letting them come to rest on her thighs; she hoped he wouldn’t notice them shaking. “That distracted me more than I thought it would.”

“What did you say just now?” 

“I said, I think Darth Marr is dead.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head and rolling back onto his side to face her. “After that. What did you whisper?” 

She hesitated. “It doesn’t matter-”

“You said a name.” Of course he’d be eager to talk the moment she didn’t want to pursue the topic. “What did you say?”

Ona’la clenched her teeth momentarily before forcing herself to relax. “I said Vitiate,” she said stiltedly. “He was-”

“The Emperor of the Sith, yes, I know that.” At her questioning look, he made a disgusted noise. “What? We had our own intelligence agencies- you think we went in blindly, fumbling from planet to planet without a goal in mind?”

“Surprisingly we know very little of your people,” she said caustically, not bothering to hide her sarcasm this time. “It’s not as if we’ve had a great many opportunities to sit and talk with any of you, after all.”

He didn’t seem affected at all by her pointed remarks, instead saying “Well, why did you say his name?”

She closed her eyes; stars above, but he was relentless when he wanted to be. She was beginning to see a glimmer of the man she’d met on the steps of Eriadu City spaceport. “Because,” she said slowly, trying to keep her temper so that she didn’t speak to him as if he were a child, “I felt his presence in the aftermath of Darth Marr’s passing.”

“You’re afraid of him.”

She could lie- it wasn’t like she’d hadn’t had to put a brave face on for the Council and the Republic in the months after she’d returned from Vitiate’s fortress over Dromund Kaas. When she’d waited patiently through all the committees and inquiry boards that had sought to determine her culpability in the failed assault and her trustworthiness after months of torture and attempts at mental conditioning, she’d buried the fear so deep inside herself that for a time she’d even been able to convince herself that nothing was amiss. It hadn’t been until she’d wandered the streets of Rishi in the aftermath of eluding the trap the Revanites had set for the Empire and Republic both, when Orgus’ presence had reached out to her one last time, that she’d finally allowed herself to admit to and confront the fear and the pain in her heart. 

She’d lied to herself for so long- she’d lied to everyone. Was it really so much more of a stretch to keep up the facade and lie to Thexan?

“I _am_ afraid of him,” she said quietly, opening her eyes to face him. She’d expected some sort of triumphant glee from him, at least a smirk at her willing admittance of a weakness; but his expression was neutral, no less intense because of it, but... no judgement. No cruel delight at her discomfort. “I think, at the end of it all, there is nothing I’m more frightened of than Vitiate, and what he is capable of doing to the galaxy. What he is capable of doing to _me_.”

Thexan’s expression didn’t even flicker. “But you killed him,” he said, and at her startled look he made the same face he had a few minutes earlier. “I already told you, we had- _have_ \- our own intelligence reports. We knew all about the Woman Who Defied Vitiate.”

The name unsettled her far more than she might have thought, and for a moment she couldn’t breathe; what was worse, knowing that they had watched her and studied her in the months and years before their attack, or knowing that they thought her some great and indomitable figure of myth? 

She couldn’t hold his gaze any longer, and she looked down at her hands. “I assure you, there was nothing heroic or defiant about what I did,” she said quietly. 

“But you _did_ kill him,” he repeated, and it struck her that he was wording it more as a question than a statement. 

Ona’la smiled weakly. “Unfortunately, it didn’t stick,” she said wryly. “I’m sure you’d appreciate the sentiment.”

She saw the shutters come back down again, saw him retreat mentally from her. “I’m sure I _don’t_ ,” he said flatly. 

She breathed out slowly through her nose, trying to find her balance again. It was hard when there were still ripples brushing against her of Marr’s death, keeping her unsettled. Reminding her that she’d felt the looming spectre of a nightmare in the moment of his death. “In any case,” she said, trying to set aside her unease, “for the moment, my history with Vitiate is irrelevant. If he had a hand in Darth Marr’s death, or in the destruction of the Allied Fleet, then...”

But the Eternal Empire had been responsible for the attack on the Allied Fleet. _Thexan’s_ people, not Vitiate. So what had happened between the destruction of the fleet and Marr’s death to have drawn Vitiate’s attention?

“Then?”

She blinked, and looked back to Thexan. “It’s nothing,” she said, trying to smile despite the thoughts that were turning slowly in her head, unveiling a truth that she desperately didn’t want to learn. “If Vitiate is involved, it will become apparent in time. For the moment, we have fifteen days until we reach Coruscant-”

“Where your Republic will trot me about like a trophy before pretending they have a right to put me on trial.”

“And in those fifteen days,” she said firmly, pointedly ignoring his interruption, “we will have a great deal of free time to fill. The medical facilities onboard are some of the best in the Republic navy, and there is a physical therapy room if you were interested in beginning a recovery program to treat your injury.”

The frustration was back in his eyes when he spoke again. “Why are you so determined to pretend that we are nothing more complicated than friendly acquaintances, and that there is absolutely nothing amiss with our situation?” 

Biting off a frustrated sigh of her own, her nerves still rubbed to a raw edge by the malevolent whisper of Vitiate’s presence, she said “Is it such a foreign concept to you, someone treating you with kindness instead of fear?”

“I would rather-”

What he would rather do or say, she never found out, because at that moment she felt the psychic equivalent of a planetary barrager explode outwards through the Force. The momentary discomfort she’d felt with Marr’s death was nothing compared to the sheer wall of _power_ \- there was no other word for it- that went surging through her. If Marr’s death had made her feel unsettled, whatever this was made her feel as if she’d been hurled headfirst into a black hole- it was power but it was an _absence_ , a horrifying vacuum where once there had been something so vast that it shuddered and seethed through the Force like a tsunami. 

She may have cried out, she couldn’t say for sure; all she knew was that she felt it rattle through every atom in her body, and it might have been over in the space of a second or it might have left her reeling for a decade or more. 

And the only thing that came to her in that horrifyingly detached moment was the knowledge that, without a shred of doubt, Vitiate was dead. 

_The Emperor was dead._

When it was done- when she _finally_ managed to put herself back together- she found herself hunched over in the chair, her hands pressed to her temples as if she’d been in pain; panting and exhausted, she slowly sat up again, wincing as she did so and opening her mouth to apologise to Thexan-

-only to find him crouching on the floor on the far side of his bed, his eyes wild, and his fingers clinging to the thin mattress so fiercely that it looked as if he’d torn the sheets. He, too, was breathless and panting, and when their gazes locked she saw him tense aggressively, as if he expected her to attack. 

The ugly, malevolent realisation that had been trying to push at her consciousness a minute earlier came surging back, pressing insistently at her as she stared at him. “You felt that,” she whispered, fear clawing at her throat. 

He was so tense that she could see the muscles in his neck and shoulders, and his hands were shaking where they gripped the mattress. “Of _course_ I felt it,” he snarled, making no move to get out from behind the meagre cover the bed provided for him. It occurred to her in a horrifying moment of clarity that he was _frightened_ , perhaps even more so than she was. “Why did _you_ feel it?”

_No. No, no, stars above, please goddess no._

She was shaking, trying so hard to deny what was coming that it was making her ill. “What did you just... what did you think it was?”

There was something in Thexan’s eyes that made her wonder whether he was slowly coming to the same horrifying realisation that she was, whether he was trying to deny it as fervently as she was. “That was the death of my father,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Emperor Valkorion of Zakuul.”

She _definitely_ made a noise that time, the moment the word _father_ passed his lips; it was a terrified wail that she only cut off with extreme difficulty, slapping a hand to her mouth as she felt the seething panic welling up in her.

_My father._

_Father._

_This was Vitiate’s son._

She was on her feet and stumbling backwards before she could stop herself, trying to put some distance between them- _the Force wouldn’t compel her to bind herself to the fate of a monster twice over_ \- and she might have been speaking, but she wasn’t really conscious of anything sensible in the babbling mess of noise she made. 

“ _Ona’la!_ ”

It was the first time he’d said her name, and it brought her up short, a moment of clarity in the panic. Thexan had half risen from his crouch, as if he’d meant to pursue her, but couldn’t bring himself to sacrifice the dubious safety the bed provided as a buffer. He was breathing hard, his face twisted in an expression of frustrated anger, but she couldn’t tell whether it was directed at her or at himself. “What did _you_ think it was?” he asked finally, the words awkwardly stilted and forced, as if it’d been an immense struggle to speak them aloud.

“Please don’t ask me to say it,” she whispered.

He made a noise of frustration, his jaw clenching as if he was fighting the urge to shout. “Who was it, Ona’la?”

She wanted to shut her eyes, because she didn’t want to see the look on his face when she said what she knew he was already thinking. 

She couldn’t.

“That was the death of Vitiate,” she said; she’d always assumed that she’d feel relief to hear that phrase, that it would be a moment of grief for a soul she could not save, quickly surpassed by the immense comfort she could take in the fact that the galaxy was safe. She felt nothing but a yawning, aching hole in her. “The emperor of the sith.”

There was a long, agonising moment of silence, where they simply stared at each other. Finally, he breathed out noisily, his nostrils flaring and his jaw working as if he was chewing over the words before speaking them. “You lie,” he said quietly, the words no less aggressive for the volume at which he spoke them. 

She swallowed down the immediate need to snarl at him, but her voice still shook as she said “I can assure you, Thexan, I would not lie about-”

“My father was _not_ a sith,” he said, “and he was certainly not- not _that_.”

Her eyes were burning with unshed tears. “I can only tell you what I know to be true.”

“Then you are _wrong_ -”

“I’m not _wrong_ , Thexan, I know what I felt as clearly as you do!” 

“ _My father was not Vitiate!_ ”

She closed her eyes, because she couldn’t stand to look at him and see the pain in his face, because she didn’t want to acknowledge that Vitiate’s son was a person capable of grief and hurt and anger just like she was. “I have to go,” she said, fumbling for the door. 

“Don’t you- no, you can’t leave, not until-”

“Thexan, I’m _sorry._ ”

“Come back here and admit that you lied! Come back here and tell me you know Vitiate is not my father!”

The door slid shut behind her and she slammed her hand onto the keypad, her hands shaking as she engaged the locks. She cringed when she heard him bang on the door. 

“ _Ona’la!_ ”

She didn’t even make it halfway down the hallway before the trooper on duty appeared before her, questions pouring out about her safety and her health and if Thexan had injured her or threatened her. There were other people shouting, she acknowledged it somewhat vaguely, but she couldn’t-

She was sobbing, and she slumped against the wall, sliding to the ground and burying her face in her hands. 

Vitiate’s son. 

Goddess help her.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for brief mentions of injury by needle, not shown

“He’s asking for you again, Battlemaster.”

Ona’la grunted in frustration as she sat up, the sound trailing off onto a groan as her muscles screamed in protest at the abrupt halt to the rhythm of her workout. She let her arms come to rest on her upraised knees, panting quietly as she rolled her neck to ease out the ache that had settled there. 

“One hundred and eighty four,” she said, pointing to the trooper in the doorway. “Don’t let me forget that.”

“Battlemaster?”

“I was up to one hundred and eighty four sit ups,” she said, climbing to her feet and planting her hands on her hips as she waited to get her breath back. “I was aiming for two hundred.”

“I, uh... that’s impressive, Battlemaster.”

She fought the urge to roll her eyes as she smiled. “Surprisingly, you don’t make the position of _Battlemaster_ without hard work,” she said wryly, wiping the sweat from her face with a towel and then slinging it over her shoulders. She’d all but claimed the physical therapy suite as her own private training room, making use of the weights and the exercise equipment to try and restore herself to her pre-hibernation levels of fitness. With three weeks in hyperspace and no injured troops aboard who would otherwise be gawking and gossiping while she shared the machines with them, it had become a blissful retreat for her to while away the hours exercising. 

It was a habit she’d fallen into when she’d first been taken in by the Jedi, after being rescued by the Republic operation that had shut down the mine she’d been enslaved in. She could never keep up with the other younglings when it came to their physical trials, or the combat practice, her tiny body reeling from over half a decade of malnutrition and starvation during her formative years. The weight she gained after her rescue never seemed to shift, and her lungs were never perfect after the damage done to them by the grit and the dust of the mines. Where the other younglings bounced around with youthful exuberance and raced with a speed imbued by their burgeoning control of the Force, she’d struggled badly, and had despaired of ever passing the Jedi trials at all. 

It was Orgus Din, years before he would step forward to take her on as his padawan, who had seen her flagging behind her peers and had taken her aside to teach her that just because she was incapable of the sort of wild energy that consumed the other younglings did not mean that she did not have her own strengths. It wasn’t until she was much older that she came to realise that Orgus had seen something of himself in her, a young one struggling to find their feet under the weight of a Jedi’s purpose, and had probably been instrumental in setting her on the path that had led her to become his padawan in later years. 

At his suggestion, she’d switched to endurance training, focusing on building her stamina and strength instead of her speed and agility. She worked to perfect the Soresu and Niman forms, working to become relentless and unmoveable; she was slow, and she would never be an elaborate duellist, but slowly as she found her rhythm, she became a master of defense and deflection, a literal fortress of a woman. 

And now, so many years later and with Orgus no longer nearby to guide her, it was easy to fall back into old routines, old habits, when things seemed at their worst and serenity sought to elude her. _Take it slow, build your strength, and find your balance in the calm that follows_ \- she could still hear his voice echoing softly in her memory. 

She had thirteen days left until they reached Coruscant. She could take it slow.

“Uh... Battlemaster?”

She shook herself, realising she’d drifted off in the blissful fugue that came when she trained. “My apologies, trooper,” she said, “that was rude of me. What were you saying?”

“The prisoner is asking for you again. What do you want me to say?”

She sighed, rubbing at her face wearily. “What did he say this time?”

“Well, apart from just shouting your name repeatedly-” Ona’la winced “- he’s also been quite insistent that you specified he was a guest and not a prisoner, and that by ignoring him, you have gone back on your word to treat him with respect and he has no reason to trust any further statements from you.”

“Stars above, he’s getting bored.” She picked up her canteen, turning it over in her hands as a stalling tactic while she tried to think of what to say. 

It had been a day and a half since Vitiate’s death- since _Valkorion’s_ death, Thexan’s father. There was no denying the fact that they were one and the same, regardless of what Thexan had wanted to believe in those panicked moments in the aftermath; she’d sat and gone over it in detail, meditating in the hope she would find peace and clarity over the whole damn mess. So much about the invasion made sense now, from their ready knowledge of critical hyper-routes to their bizarre selection of planets to strike at, and especially their interest in the Sith worlds to the benefit of the Republic. 

It explained so much, and yet raised further questions- was Valkorion his true form, this allegedly mortal man who had managed to sire children? When she’d faced him over Dromund Kaas, and then later in the dark depths of the temple, had that only been a shadow of what he truly was, a mere flicker in the darkness that was his true potential? And if he was capable of maintaining his life force in two separate places, as two separate beings on opposite sides of the galaxy... then what was to stop him from repeating the process multiple times over? 

In how many dark corners of the galaxy had he left a piece of himself, to blossom and grow like a tumor? Was this only the first of many masks he wore?

And that didn’t at all settle her nerves regarding Thexan, and what to do with him- he didn’t have any trace of Vitiate in him, nothing in his presence that had set off an alarm in her head. Scourge was utterly drenched in the sense of him, like some choking miasma that clung to him and had soaked into his very bones. Even Lord Dara, from the few short years she’d served as the Wrath, had an unmistakable edge to her presence, something slow and dark and unsettling that was the result of his influence in her life. 

Thexan, for all that he was quite literally Vitiate’s son, felt nothing like that. He was powerful, true, and he was cold and there were traces of cruelty in him, but she wagered that had more to do with his upbringing than any influence Vitiate might have imprinted on him. The obvious answer, of course, was that Valkorion was _not_ Vitiate, or at least did not share the qualities that had made the Sith Emperor an unstoppable nightmare creature; for Valkorion to die, he had to be mortal, which was certainly a strike against the notion that they were interchangeable. 

It had made her head ache all of yesterday, trying to unpuzzle it all, not at all helped by the fact that Thexan was determined to get her attention- when the messages he’d shouted through the door at the bewildered guards and medical staff had gone unanswered, he’d resorted to trying to reach out to her through the Force. She hadn’t known many who had the talent for it, to be honest, so the first time he’d tried it had startled her badly. It wasn’t some sort of magical, psychic connection- it wasn’t as if his voice suddenly started rambling away in her mind without a moment’s warning- but more of an... _awareness_. She could sense him, _feel him_ , and his accompanying moods, as if they were an extension of her own emotions. 

She’d felt every tantrum he’d thrown over the last day, and every moment of frustrated longing borne by loneliness and grief. His moods wrenched at her, like a wailing child tugging at her robes and demanding to be picked up and coddled until the tantrum and the tears waned.

He’d been lurking in the back of her thoughts while she’d exercised, brooding and frustrated at her repeated refusal to talk to him.

The sound of someone clearing their throat drew her back to the present and she blinked as she realised she’d once again drifted off while the poor soldier before her had been speaking. 

“Goddess, I am _so_ sorry,” she said, setting the canteen down and crossing over to the door to put her hand on the trooper’s shoulder. “That was appallingly rude of me, I apologise.”

“Ah, it’s quite alright, Battlemaster.”

“What’s your name? If you don’t mind telling me.”

The trooper hesitated for a moment and then reached up to flip open their visor; warm brown eyes stared almost nervously from within. “Corporal Marri Delrassath,” she said, her voice no longer distorted by the helmet comms device. “It’s fine though, I don’t expect you’ll have much cause to use it.”

“Oh, you never know- I find myself travelling with the _Illustrious_ more often than not, it seems. And I will be onboard for the next thirteen days, at least.” She squeezed her shoulder once as a comfort and then stepped back. “But truly, I wanted you to know that my apology was genuine- so, Marri, I apologise for not listening to you. I appreciate you coming to tell me about the change in situation.”

The corporal shifted slightly from foot to foot, as if a little flustered and out of her depth. “I just asked what message you’d like me to pass onto the prisoner, if any,” she said. “He was fairly, uh... _adamant_ that I needed to deliver it personally, and immediately.”

Ona’la draped the towel over her shoulders, holding an end in each hand as she considered her options. “Has he eaten today?”

“No, Master Jedi, sir. He was a little too agitated this morning, we made the decision with the Security Chief to not risk unlocking his quarters.”

She sighed, her stomach fluttering unhappily as she came to a decision. “Alright then,” she said softly. “Please tell him I’ll be along shortly.” 

The doubts and the fears followed her all the way back to her room, chattering away incessantly even when she stopped in the main ward to have a quiet word to the technicians there, giving them a list of instructions for what she was about to attempt. 

Back in her own suite, she stripped off her exercise gear and gratefully stepped into the refresher booth, letting the water run hot enough to coax all of her aching muscles into relaxing. She found herself drifting while she stood beneath the spray, trying to think of a thousand things at once and finding no succor in any of them.

So Thexan was Vitiate’s son- so what? Scourge had been bound to him for centuries, his very life force unnaturally extended by his connection to sith entity. He may have schemed against him in the quiet corners of his heart, but he had still served him. _Killed_ for him. Kira had been intended to be one of his puppets, and had even been forced to turn against her when she was younger and less practised in resisting his influence. She’d still allowed both of them to serve alongside of her, never held their connection to Vitiate against them. 

She’d even found herself to be all but fond of Lord Dara, Vitiate’s more recent Wrath, and _she_ had taken the position as Vitiate’s blade _willingly_. 

She could not, in good faith, judge Thexan for the unfortunate circumstances of his parenthood. She could- and _would_ \- take issue with his part in the invasion of Republic and Imperial space, and the war crimes he had committed in the name of Zakuul, but as for the rest...

With a frustrated grunt, she disengaged the water and stepped back out into the dim room to towel herself dry; she wasn’t a fan of the heated air filters in most refresher booths, reminded of the searing hot air that would come blasting up from the depths of the mine shafts whenever the safety doors opened. Twi’lek skin was hardly delicate, designed to endure the harsh environment of Ryloth’s sun and sandstorms, but that didn’t mean she wanted to bake herself until she looked like a leather bag.

Someone on the _Illustrious’_ crew had very kindly donated their carefully hoarded cosmetics, and while the shade of purple was a little more towards magenta than she would have preferred, she wasn’t about to complain. She dressed herself modestly in the clothes sent down by the purser’s office from supply- a surprisingly non militaristic tunic and loose pants, goddess bless that she wasn’t resigned to only her battle garb or her medical garments. She kept herself barefoot, the more to seem unobtrusive and less threatening, and carefully applied the blessed paints to her eyes and lips. 

She wasn’t a fool to the fact that a bizarrely huge portion of the galactic population seemed to find twi’leks attractive. She also wasn’t above using that knowledge to her advantage, because it was as amusing as it was frustrating just how often people saw a pretty, painted face and underestimated her as a result. It worked with allies just as often as it did with her enemies, and right now she needed it to work on Thexan. 

There was a knock on her door just as she was settling her mother’s headpiece over her lekku, and a moment later it slid open to admit Medical Officer Jarrows. He was holding a tray, and he smiled nervously as he held it out to her. “As requested, Battlemaster,” he said. 

Ona’la returned the smile warmly. “Thank you, Denn,” she said, taking the tray. She was as ready as she was likely to be. “I’d like to see him now, if that’s alright.”

“Of course, Master Jedi,” he said, gesturing towards the main ward. “Right this way.” 

They didn’t speak again as he led her down the hallway towards Thexan’s room, and she appreciated the silence. She didn’t really feel up to attempting small talk right now. 

At the door, she waited patiently while Jarrows and the corporal both input their codes- after Thexan’s performance over the last few days, the Chief Security Officer had rather firmly ruled against her retaining the only working security code to his door. She couldn’t say she blamed him for that decision. 

“Just call out if you need anything, Battlemaster,” Corporal Delrassath said, her blaster rifle held very pointedly with the safety off. 

Ona’la suppressed the urge to shudder at the blatant offer of violence. “Of course,” she said softly; she held her chin high, her expression relaxed, and she stepped through into the room... 

... which was an absolutely _appalling_ mess. 

She’d felt the tantrums of course, over the last day and a half since she’d fled from him, but it was quite another thing to see the evidence of it laid out before her. The med droid lay quiet and still on the floor by the far wall, one side caved in in a tangle of exposed wiring and crumpled metal panels. What little furniture the room had held was either out of place or upended, with the exception of his bed which was a single unit embedded in the floor of the suite- she couldn’t help but notice that his pillow and a blanket had somehow made their way to the corner furthest from the door, and she felt a pang of concern that no one had told her he’d taken to sleeping on the floor. 

“Have you come to apologise?”

The concern and the kindliness that was building in her heart drained away, and she cast him a withering look. He was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, his expression just as flat and cold as she’d come to expect from him- his appearance, however, negated his attempts to seem at ease and unaffected by her return. The shadow across his cheeks had grown further, leaving him looking scruffy and unkempt, and there was dried blood trailing down one arm and splattered across his pants- which, as it seemed, was still the only item of clothing he was wearing. 

He was standing barefoot and half naked, filthy and blood splattered and disheveled, in the ruins of his room. He looked like a feral animal. 

The fear in her heart began to twist more towards pity. 

“I’ve come to _talk_ to you,” she said quietly, very pointedly not conceding to his bratishness, but also not deriding him for it. 

He made a noise of irritation, and he rolled his eyes. “You’ve come to talk _at_ me, you mean.”

“If you choose not to engage in the conversation, then yes, I suppose I will be the one doing all the talking.”

He shifted, his arms coming to rest against the wall as if he meant to push off and stalk towards her; the source of the dried blood became apparent at the change in his posture, a scabbed over patch of skin in the crook of his elbow. At least it wasn’t anything he’d done to his saber wound, which although ugly and twisted and red, did not seem any worse than when she had last seen him. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

She stopped, looking at him flatly. “ _Really_ ,” she said, worded as a statement of disbelief rather than as a query. She surveyed the mess he’d made of his quarters with an incredulous look on her face, making a point to slowly look from one side to the other so that he knew she’d seen it all; he, for his part, was very deliberately not looking at her, in a manner that implied he was paying excruciatingly close attention to her and her reaction to him. 

With a sigh, she set the tray of food down on the nearest upright surface. “It didn’t occur to you that it might be appropriate to see to the damage you’d caused trying to get my attention, maybe tidy up a little?”

His jaw tensed, but he didn’t look her way. “There are people for that,” he said stiffly, and she fought the urge to roll her eyes.

“Strangely enough, your Highness, this is no palace suite-”

“You want me to believe the Republic keeps no custodial or janitorial staff?”

She rounded on him, the urge to take him by the shoulders and shake him surprisingly difficult to overcome. “Would you have sat quietly and politely while they did their work, then, your Highness?” she asked sarcastically. “Or perhaps we should have you sedated, just to be on the safe side.”

His lip curled as if he meant to snarl a retort, but as she held her ground and stared at him, she saw him deflate slightly. “It would hardly be the first time you have done something to my person without my consent,” he said quietly, his tone bitter. 

That took the fight out of her immediately, and she closed her eyes. “I hardly think you are in a position of defence on the matter, your Highness,” she said, “given the nature of our first meeting and what became of me as a result.”

“So that justifies your continual mistreatment of me, and the fact that I don’t want to be here?”

His words caught her attention, if only because it was the first time he’d stated a desire to be free of here, rather than a desire to be dead. “We are currently travelling through hyperspace, Thexan,” she said calmly. “If you are so desperate to leave immediately, I’m sure I could have a word to the captain, and she’d be happy to open one of the emergency airlocks for you.”

As expected, he wasn’t anticipating her to be so candid in her offer of escape and death, and he looked away. “That’s not what I meant,” he said quietly, frustrated. 

“Then _tell me_ what you meant,” she said slowly, over-enunciating each syllable. “Look me in the eye and _tell me_ that you want to die, tell me that you want the ship to stop so that you can turn tail and flee straight back to Zakuul, where you can go back to hiding from the world again in a kolto tank.”

In her frustration she’d crossed the room towards him, coming to a stop before him- she really should have been more careful, given the shards of metal and duraplas and goddess only knew what else all over the floor from his outbursts. But she didn’t look, and somehow she made it across the room without impaling her bare feet, and she’d stop and berate herself for her foolishness later, when she was alone, perhaps. 

In fact, she barely noticed that she’d stalked towards him until she went to poke him rather firmly in the chest to drive home her point, stopping herself at the last moment from touching him. _He asked you not to_. That much she could respect, at least.

Thexan, for his part, was staring at her wide-eyed, something vaguely alarmed in his expression that made her suspect he was only a hairsbreadth away from lurching away from her. 

She took a step backwards, putting her hands rather pointedly back at her sides. “I apologise, Thexan,” she said quietly. “That was cruel of me.”

He couldn’t have looked more confused if she’d suddenly sprouted hair and turned into a human. 

_Goddess help me, this is exhausting._

She tried again. “I came as you requested,” she said, doing her best to keep her tone gentle and reassuring. “And I’ve brought you food- would you like to sit with me, and eat?”

His gaze flickered momentarily to where she’d left the tray, a shadow of hungry longing in his eyes, before he looked back to her. “No,” he said bluntly. 

“Aren’t you hungry? I’ve been informed you’ve not eaten yet today.”

“I don’t want anything from you,” he said quickly, though the loud rumble of his stomach a moment later betrayed his attempts to be standoffish.

She fought back a sigh. “You are clearly hungry, and clearly in need of attention, and...” She cast her eyes over him with a little more care, taking note of the fact that the bruised, scabbed area in the crook of his elbow was still oozing blood slowly. “And definitely foolish enough to tear out your IV, I’m assuming.”

He flushed guiltily, looking down at the injury and then tucking his arm tight against his chest. “You ran,” he said, forcing the words out past gritted teeth. “I- had to stop you. I didn’t precisely have time to take it out properly.”

“So you just left it for two days,” she said, mentally throwing her hands in the air and adding _of course, because that’s only the sensible thing to do, isn’t it?_

He scowled at her, and she took that as an answer.

Ona’la turned around and headed towards the door, counting in her head to see how many steps she could make before he panicked.

She didn’t have to wait long. “Where are you going?” he asked instantly, his voice far more alert and aggravated than it had been so far during her visit.

“Nowhere,” she said cryptically, because she didn’t fancy catering to his every whim so explicitly.

“What are you doing, then?” If she didn’t know better, she’d almost say he was vaguely alarmed at the prospect of her leaving.

She knocked politely on the door, and waited for the frosted duraplas panel to shift to clear so that she could see Corporal Delrassath looking through from the other side. “Could you have whoever is the medical officer on duty to bring down a basic medkit, if it’s not still Doctor Jarrows?” she asked. “I don’t need anything extravagant, even just a field kit would do the trick.”

The corporal saluted through the panel and made her way out of sight down the corridor, the panel turning opaque again as she left.

“What are you doing?” Thexan said again. 

She smiled grandly as she turned around to face him, clasping her hands demurely before her. “I’m fixing things,” she said simply. 

He shuffled along the wall slightly, his bad arm still clutched to his chest. “What does that mean?” he asked, apparently stubbornly determined not to use his quite considerable intelligence to puzzle out her intentions. “What’s happening?”

“What’s going to happen, _Thexan_ ,” she said, pointedly using his name instead of his title, “is that since you are so utterly incapable of retaining any sense of self preservation, and since you continue to be far too violent for the staff of this vessel to tend to your needs, it falls to me to take care of you.”

He was unmoving against the wall, so still that for a moment she had to wonder whether or not he was even breathing. “What?” he asked finally, a glimmer of confusion in his voice. 

“I said, I will have to tend to your needs.”

“I heard you,” he snarled, and she was startled to realise there was a faint flush of colour in his cheeks. “I don’t _have_ needs. Not- _no_.”

She blinked, bewildered by his response- and then the meaning behind his words came crashing down on her. “Oh, goddess preserve, you aren’t-” She bit her lip to keep from blurting out the first stupid thing that came to mind. Taking a deep breath, she continued, trying to ignore the way she felt the nervous heat making the tips of her lekku curl up against her back. “I can assure you, Thexan, my offer did not extend to _anything_ of an intimate or sexual nature. If that’s some sort of service expected in Zakuul culture, I can promise you it does not extend here.” 

He was breathing hard, and his eyes were darting about restlessly, as if he couldn’t bring himself to look at her. “I wouldn’t want it to,” he said snappishly. “Not from you. Or- or from anyone.”

That was enough to make her relax a little. “I’ll try to contain my immense disappointment,” she said wryly, amused that he would consider it an insult. “Now- do you wish to eat first, or bathe?”

“I don’t want to do either, and especially not with you here.”

She smiled at him. “How unfortunate for you, since I don’t trust you to do either by yourself and have no intention of leaving.”

Thexan made a frustrated snarling noise from between gritted teeth. “ _Get out_.” 

“How peculiar, given that you’ve spent the last day and a half asking for me incessantly.” She corrected one of the chairs he’d upended in one of his numerous tantrums and sat down, gesturing to the tray of food. “We can talk while you eat, if you’d like, since you had so much you wanted to say to me.”

He covered his face with his hands. “By the Heart of Scyva, do you just not give up?”

She smiled sadly, even though he could not see it with his face covered. “I would hardly be the woman am I today if I did,” she said. “In fact I probably would have died a very long time ago, were that the case.”

“At least I would be spared your incessant coddling.”

“Indeed, because you’d undoubtedly be dead yourself, should you have been left untended for much longer in that tank. Now, are you going to sit and eat, or would you like to bathe first? I think I’d prefer for you to have cleaned up before I take a look at your arm.”

“I don’t need you to-”

“Thexan, unless you end that sentence with ‘ _go to so much trouble on my account_ ’ I will be exceedingly frustrated with you, and you can rest assured that I will not pay attention to anything you snap at me so loftily.”

His mouth snapped shut rather loudly, and for a long, tense moment he only stared at her mutinously. Just when she was beginning to fear that he was going to push back yet again, he looked away.

And then he stepped away from the wall- or perhaps _slunk_ was the better verb in this instance, given that he looked to all intents and purposes like a dog after a scolding- and with intensely stiff movements, corrected another upended chair and then sat down, all while refusing to look at her. 

_Progress._

He still hugged the injured arm to his chest, a fresh trickle of blood oozing down the curve of his arm to his elbow; more than that, his body language was exceedingly closed off, his posture angling him away from her and his energy nervous and angry and frightened. But it was still progress. 

“Do you need help at all to eat?” she prompted gently.

“I don’t need anything from _you_ ,” he snapped, though there was none of the earlier heat in his voice. If anything, he sounded exhausted. 

“I’ll assume that’s a no, then,” she said, keeping her tone level. “The preliminary medical scans didn’t seem to indicate that you had any allergies, so you’ve got more variety to choose from this time- soup again, and the sugar grain bars, but there’s also a noodle and vegetable fry if you’d like to try something more substantial.”

“Why do you care so much about keeping me alive?” he asked, looking at her again at last; the anger had seeped away, and in its place was nothing but confusion and fear. “Your republic is going to kill me when you hand me over to them. Why are you so determined to make your stand here?”

She breathed out slowly, sensing that a flippant answer would land badly in this case. “Because it is not in my nature _not_ to care,” she said. “I have, on every given occasion, done everything in my power to see compassion and healing offered to those most sorely in need. I will not resort to death when other paths are open to me.”

He blinked, as if considering her words. “But you killed Vitiate,” he said after a moment. 

To say she wasn’t expecting those words from him was an understatement- she hadn’t even been expecting him to say Vitiate’s _name_ , not any time soon. Not after how badly he’d reacted to the news that Valkorion had been just another of Vitiate’s many forms. But it was there, hanging like an accusation between them, like he’d found a way to permanently undermine her honesty and her integrity in one fell swoop. 

Ona’la tried to ignore the way her hands trembled in her lap, folding them together so the shaking was less apparent. “I am going to tell you something, Thexan, that I have never told another living soul,” she said quietly. She took a deep breath. “I did not kill Vitiate. Not- not in the way the galaxy seems to think I did.”

He stared at her, unflinching, and she couldn’t gauge a reaction from him at all, so she continued.

“I went to confront him on Dromund Kaas, in the depths of the jungle, and I- all everyone wanted from me was death. They celebrated the fact that I was going with the intent to commit murder.” She twisted her fingers together, her stomach roiling miserably at the memory. “He was... it was overwhelming, the darkness around him, like a physical shroud. We fought, because that was what was expected of me, and I...”

Thexan didn’t say a word, waiting.

She licked her lips, and took a shuddering breath. “I hesitated,” she said, the confession so painful to say aloud. “He was weak, and for a brief moment I hesitated because I wanted to believe that the light could save him, because if the darkness was so powerful that it could consume entire worlds, then surely the light would be more than a match for it.”

She couldn’t explain the immensity of what she’d gone through in those few brief minutes in Vitiate’s temple, the pain and the hope and the violence that had surged through her as naturally as breathing. Stepping back from that precipice had been one of the hardest and most likely the stupidest thing she had ever done. 

“So you didn’t kill him.”

“I couldn’t,” she whispered, “I couldn’t push myself to take that last step, even when it was the right thing to do. And _millions_ of people died as a result of my naivety.”

There was the slightest hint of a frown creasing his forehead. “But Vitiate still died in that temple,” he said slowly, puzzling through it all. “I read the reports compiled by both the SIS and Imperial Intelligence.”

It unsettled her to think that he’d very likely read her own reports on the matter. “He refused to be taken prisoner,” she said simply. “When he realised I had no intention of striking him down, he- he brought the temple down on top of us. I suppose he hoped to kill me in the collapse, because if he couldn’t win outright he could at least demoralise the Republic by ending the life of one of their greatest heroes.”

“And then you claimed the kill as your own, and earned the accolades, though it was not owed to you.”

She closed her eyes to hide how close she was to tears; it was a fair assumption to make, even if it did hurt. “They all felt his... ending, as it were,” she said. “They felt him diminish. The assumptions were made by others, before I had even been retrieved from beneath the rubble- which, I might add, took a number of days.”

He huffed out a breath, as if in disgust. “And yet you did not correct them.”

Ona’la opened her eyes again and cast him a withering look. “And what could I say, perhaps?” she asked caustically. “I could have started with ‘ _I know you’ve all been celebrating the Emperor’s death for days now, but it’s all been a mistake_ ’? Or perhaps I should have led with ‘ _please stop calling me a hero when I’m actually a coward_ ’? Do you have any suggestions, Thexan- after all, you’ve come back from the dead to a world changed, would you rather speak the truth now or leave things as they are?” 

Thexan quite visibly flinched, trying to school his expression to calm a moment later, but it was too late- the barb had landed, and he knew that she knew. 

He was saved from answering her by a knock on the door, and Ona’la went over to the security hatch in the wall to retrieve the medkit. When she returned, he was turning a spoon over in his hands, the first indication he’d given since waking that he wanted to eat. 

“I’ll wash first,” he said quietly, so quietly that she almost had to lean in to hear him correctly. 

She offered him a sad smile. “As you wish, your Highness,” she said, setting the medkit down on the table beside the tray of food. “If you need any assistance, I’ll be right here.”

“Surprisingly, I’ve encountered a bathing module before,” he said as he climbed to his feet. She didn’t ask him if he’d been attempting to make a joke- she was fairly certain he was- nor did she fuss after him as he made his way into the refresher and closed the door behind him. 

It was progress. She just had to keep reminding herself it was progress. 

Coruscant seemed a very long way away.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for treatment of an injury caused by needle, blood etc

To say that Thexan was utterly bewildered by the Battlemaster’s behaviour was a vast understatement.

They had been trained for the eventuality that they might be taken prisoner by an enemy force- although for the most part the lessons had consisted of _don’t_ \- and ever since he was a child, enduring the pain of combat training and the frustration of trying to grasp advanced military tactics, he had known what was expected of him in the event that he was captured.

Not a single one of his tutors or his trainers, for all of their diligence and cruelty and obsessive attention to detail, had ever given him advice that would be appropriate for the situation he found himself in now. Namely, trapped in an enemy craft by a woman he could probably overpower if he set his mind to it, while she continued to smile and hold out her hand in offer of friendship no matter how greatly he insulted her and disrespected her.

He had no idea why he hadn’t tried to overpower her and escape. He knew how, of course- on a Valor class ship such as this there would be just under two thousand crew at any given time, and anywhere up to five thousand combat troops, if he was going by Republic standard naval practice, and he knew precisely how to disable the craft even against such incredulous odds. Whether he could do it without his lightsaber was debatable, but it would be easy enough to procure a weapon from any soldier he came across. Slice into the comms, generate a false alarm in at least one section of every deck, race to engineering and silence any who got in his way, overheat the fusion reactor supporting the hypermatter annihilator, perform an emergency vent but redirect the vent protocol to the life support systems. Five thousand troopers caught in the superheated radiation blast coming through the ship’s internal systems, five thousand less troopers for him to have to fight, and a vast number of irradiated death traps between him and any pursuers. From there, it would be the work of a moment to finish disabling the hyperdrive, and escape using one of the pods intended for use by the engineering deck staff. Who, of course, were already long dead in this theoretical situation.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t trained for it- he’d been forced to memorise the internal layout of dozens of starship models, both commercial and military, and he’d known how to disable and destroy all of them before his tenth birthday. He was certainly limited by his new injuries, but it wouldn’t be impossible; if he set his mind to it and pushed past the pain, he could have taken the ship and escaped. Or at the very least, destroyed it and himself in the process, dying defiant and unbroken as he took down one of the Republic’s greatest warships.

But he hadn’t.

The water stung as he stood beneath the spray, his skin hypersensitive under months of grime and sweat and blood; they hadn’t had ready access to bathing facilities on their march across the galaxy, given that the fleet had only ever been built to accommodate synthetic life forms like the Skytroopers, and hadn’t been constructed with the comforts of mortal creatures in mind.

He hadn’t bathed since long before Korriban, when Arcann had come so close to death, his blood so dark against the red sands that it had been as if he’d bled darkness. It hadn’t mattered, because there was work to be done and it was selfish to consider the simple luxury of bathing when his brother clung so precariously to his control, a seething mess of pain and grief and fear and hate. If their father- _their father the sith entity_ \- could not see past his disdain for Arcann’s grandiose plans- _which were only ever to please you, father, emperor, creature, whatever you were_ \- then he would see them brought to fruition, for his brother’s sake, his brother’s happiness. He had sworn it to him then, that Arcann’s vision was his vision, that nothing would threaten his future so long as Thexan drew breath.

He took a shuddering breath and let his head come to rest against the wall of the shower unit, hands braced against the wall so that the chance of him collapsing against it was lessened. His legs still trembled painfully as he tried to keep his balance, but he gritted his teeth and ignored them, because that was what he did, what he’d been trained to do all of his life- ignore the pain and push through it, because the alternative was failure and he had learned the hard way that failure only begot more pain.

Failure meant that _Arcann_ would suffer too, and he could not abide that.

With a shaking hand, he reached down and let his fingers awkwardly come to rest over the thick band of scar tissue around his waist, his breath hitching in his throat when even the slightest pressure was enough to send deep shards of pain sinking into his gut. It wasn’t a sharp pain, but it was vast- enough so that it took him several seconds to realise he was holding his breath, half winded, and with immense difficulty he let go of it, the air shuddering past his lips.

His fingertips traced the ridge of ruined flesh as it curved around him, hugging close to the bottom of his ribs. An inch or two more and it would have cut through bone, possibly his lungs; he would have died choking, unable to draw in air, and no kolto tank would have saved him then. He still didn’t know how or why he’d survived in the first place, not when he knew with such painful clarity what it was to die.

He closed his eyes, his face scrunching up against the humiliating prospect of tears; he hadn’t wanted to die, not really, but he didn’t know what else to do to save Arcann from himself. The moment that Arcann had reached for his lightsaber while their father’s back was turned, it had been a choice- either Arcann was going to die, or he was going to die.

He couldn’t live with himself if he’d stood by and let his brother die, and so the easier choice- the _better_ choice- had been to give up his own life.

His palm pressed flat against the scar, and he couldn’t help the hitched sob he let out; he fought the next one down, grinding his teeth together until it was nothing more than a painful, awful hiccup. He shuddered, squeezing his eyes so tightly shut that he saw stars when he opened them again, dunking his head under the spray to try and clear his thoughts. From outside the tiny booth that was scarcely big enough to serve as a refresher, he could hear movement; Ona’la, doing only Izax knew what in the room beyond. The hand that was still resting against the wall curled in slightly, as if his fingers wanted to contort into claws.

She should have killed him. If not when she found him unconscious in the tank, then a dozen times over since then. Anyone else would have- stars above, even _he_ would have done it, were he in her shoes. It shouldn’t even have been a question to be asked in the first place.

Not knowing what she was doing was making him agitated, and he scowled and scrubbed at himself hurriedly so that he could get back out there; he didn’t know precisely what he intended to do once he got out there, but knowing she was in his room- what scant sanctuary that provided- and doing _things_ without his supervision and explicit ability to object to her meddling made him want to move faster.

He didn’t understand a damn thing she’d done so far, except for the moment when she’d fled from him in panicked tears. _That_ made sense- he was the monster from the edge of space that had tried to kill her, sired by a man she considered to be the greatest evil the galaxy had ever seen. Her fear was what he’d expected, and he knew what was expected of him in return. Everything else she did was utterly unfathomable.

And that made her dangerous.

He grunted in pain as his scrubbing dislodged the scab in the crook of his elbow, blood welling up quickly in its place. He pulled his arm tight against his chest to keep pressure on it, scowling as he tried to do the rest of the job one-handed; the last thing he wanted was for her to decide he was taking too long and to come charging in like some self appointed white knight, determined to wash him herself or supervise him or... _something._

There was a lurching sort of heat beneath his skin at the thought of her in there with him- the only person in his life he’d had any sort of non-violent physical contact with had been Arcann, and very occasionally Vaylin. His mother’s touch lingered in the distant past of his childhood, but even that had faded. People simply didn’t _touch_ him, because he was the Prince and he was above them, forbidden and powerful and something vaguely inhuman compared to them.

And yet for some reason Ona’la didn’t seem to think that applied to her. She kept _touching_ him, not as a means of control or dominance but just because he was there and she could, as if she didn’t even seem to consider the implications of such contact or what it meant or how it would be received. And she kept _apologizing_ , stars above, he was a prisoner of war and she kept apologizing to _him_ for the inconvenience?

It occurred to him abruptly that the hand against his chest had curled into a fist, the edges of his nails stabbing into the skin of his palm. With great difficulty, he relaxed, trying to inhale steadily through his nose.

By the time he reached to disengage the water, he didn’t feel any more relaxed than when he’d stepped in.

There was a very basic storage tower crammed in beside the shower unit, one shelf holding towels and the other shelf holding what proved on closer inspection to be hospital clothing- the pants were familiar enough, probably what he’d been wearing since he’d been brought on board. He had a brief moment of dissatisfaction at being reduced to looking like an invalid, before a cruel voice in his head reminded him that that was essentially all he was now; he pushed both responses away, instead wondering where his actual clothing had gone. Had he been thrown into the kolto tank in his battle robes, with less than minimal care taken to see that he survived?

Why had anyone even gone to that much effort in the first place, when it would have been easy to leave him where he’d fallen on the floor of his father’s throne room?

He was reaching for his ring finger before he realised it, and scowled, clenching his hand back at his side; so he didn’t have Arcann’s ring to toy with when he was distracted, so what? Distraction was a death sentence, he’d be better off without it.

For all he knew, maybe Arcann had taken it back after he’d-

There was a gentle tap on the door. “Thexan?”

He lurched away from the door, his heart hammering in his chest. “ _What?_ ” he snarled, hoping she’d ignore the way his voice shook.

“Are you alright?”

 _No._ “Do you assume most people struggle with basic hygiene?”

He heard her huff out a breath, in what sounded like frustration. “Some people do,” she said pointedly, her voice muffled by the door. “Especially people with debilitating physical conditions.”

The implication of course being that she considered him weak. “I’m fine.”

“Alright. I just wanted to ask, because you seemed quite distressed for a moment.”

He closed his eyes in mortified horror- of _course_ she could sense the changes in his moods. Of course. Because this entire experience wasn’t humiliating enough. “I’m _fine_ ,” he repeated from between gritted teeth.

“Alright,” she said, nothing in her tone to suggest she was affronted by his waspishness. “I’ll be here when you’re ready.”

What if he wanted to stay in here forever? What if it was easier to just hide in here where he wouldn’t be prodded and poked and asked a hundred thousand inane and relentless questions by a woman who should have known better than to presume they were equals? What if it was just better to stay in here where he didn’t have to deal with what it meant to be declared a dead betrayer and whether his sacrifice had saved Arcann or merely delayed the inevitable?

“Thexan?”

He opened his eyes again, rubbing the back of his hand roughly over his eyes and telling himself he only had a headache; that was definitely the only reason his eyes were watering so badly. “I’ll be out in a moment,” he said, his voice hoarse.

The refresher had a mirror on the wall above the wash basin, and he was grateful at least for the steam that had fogged the surface. He could see the blur of his own reflection, the vague colour and shape, but nothing else; he didn’t particularly want to see himself like this, laid so low.

He didn’t want to know what it would be like to look in the mirror and see the face of the person who had tried to kill him.

It was difficult to towel himself off without getting more blood on the cloth, and eventually he gave up, rushing through the process as much as he could while the blood trailed down his arm and twined around his wrist. It smeared down his forearm when he tugged one of the bland hospital shirts over his head- it was open at the back, only pinned together by a single button between his shoulders, and he felt painfully exposed each time the fabric shifted and fluttered against his back.

The pants at least were simple enough to navigate, held up by a drawstring that he awkwardly tried to tie one handed while he kept his injured arm clenched tight against the chest to try and stem some of the worst of the bleeding. All he’d managed so far was to splatter blood on the shirt.

And then... then there was nothing else to keep him locked away in this tiny booth but for his pride. No good excuse anyway, nothing that would stop the relentless altruism of a woman like the Battlemaster.

What sort of military order appointed a woman like that to the role of their martial champion, anyway? If he hadn’t seen her on the battlefield with his own two eyes, utterly unsurmountable and single-minded with a weapon in her hands, he would have found it impossible to imagine her with even an ounce of aggression in her body. Honestly, he wasn’t sure what he found more intimidating- the fact that it had taken he and Arcann working together, harrowing her from both sides for close to an hour to finally break through her guard, or her unquestioning drive to do _good_ , regardless of what it cost her.

He shook himself; it didn’t matter how the Jedi conducted themselves, or what she was to him. In a short number of days, she would hand him off to her Republic, and she would be praised and fussed over and treated as the grand Hero of the Republic yet again, and that would be that. He would be dead at best, if luck was on his side, or kept imprisoned like some freakish pet if he was less fortunate. Either way, she was his enemy, a woman he had tried to kill and who had in turn ensured his own death.

The less time he spent dwelling on her, the better.

Taking a deep breath, he turned to the door, holding his arm close against his chest; it was slightly cooler in the main room, the heat of the steam far more noticeable as the door hissed open in front of him and he went to step back into the room-

-and stopped.

_She’d tidied his room._

The blankets and the pillows were back on the bed- or possibly replaced entirely, because they did not bear the telltale stains and marks that had been inevitable with the grime on his skin and later the injury to his arm. All of the furniture had been righted and set back into their appropriate places, and she’d even gone to the trouble of removing the broken med droid and- sweeping? Did Jedi _sweep_?

“If you don’t breathe sometime in the next few seconds, you’re going to get light-headed and swoon.” Her voice came from his left, and he looked over to find her unpacking the medkit that she’d requested earlier.

He sucked in a breath with difficulty, swallowing down the frustration that came once again from trying to find his balance around this aggravatingly confusing woman. “What is this?” he asked finally, because that at least seemed like the sort of question he should ask.

“I believe I already answered that question earlier, and you took my answer to be an invitation for sexual intimacy,” she said candidly, glancing over at him with a droll expression on her face. “But, I suppose for the sake of transparency- I’m attempting to take _care_ of you, Thexan, and your health is not well served by living in mess and filth.”

“Why?”

“Why am I doing this, or why is your health not best served by living in filth?”

“You know what I meant.”

She smiled gently. “It does neither of us any favours for me to make assumptions,” she said, as if she wasn’t at all tired by the constant repetition and petty backtalk he offered in return for her genuine attempts at starting a conversation. “So why don’t we just agree that it’s in your best interest to at least have clean, comfortable living quarters, and move on.”

When she didn’t continue, he hesitated. “Move on to what?” he said after a moment.

She gestured towards him. “Your arm?”

He glanced down to where he held it clutched against his chest, as if he’d forgotten it was there. “Oh. That.”

She laughed- _laughed_. As if she was comfortable enough with him to joke and jest like they were old friends, as if there was nothing at all unusual or bizarre about their situation and they had every right to be relaxed and laughing in one another’s company.

He could only stare at her as if she’d suddenly changed colour without warning.

Ona’la tapped the back of one of the chairs that she’d righted in her cleaning spree. “Come on,” she coaxed gently. “If you stand there gaping for too long, you’ll have to change your clothes again.”

He glanced down to see the blood stain had slowly blossomed outwards, like some kind of cankerous flower print on the fabric, and he scowled. He thought about objecting to her insistent fussing, but... he was tired. He’d been on his feet for near to half an hour now, between the shower and her visit, and he felt light-headed from exhaustion.

So he gave up, and slid reluctantly into the chair.

She pulled her chair up beside his, facing in the opposite direction, and sat down beside him; she was close enough that her thigh pressed up against his, that same closeness that didn’t even seem to register to her and yet burned him with the forced intimacy of it. He could feel every shift in her muscles as she settled in the chair, every time she tensed and relaxed, and it was so distracting it took him a few seconds to realise she’d been calling his name.

He blinked, and found her smiling at him as if his lapse of concentration amused her. “What?”

“I asked you to relax, and give me your arm.”

That only made him tense further, hugging his arm to his chest. “Why?”

“Can I expect ‘ _who, when, where and how_ ’ to follow next?”

It took him a moment to realise she was teasing him, and he felt his skin heat, his neck prickling as he looked away with a scowl. “I- no,” he said stiltedly, still holding his injured arm close to him.

“You’ve injured yourself, Thexan, and with your permission I would like to see to the wound- it’s not going to kill you, but it’s going to make your life unpleasant if you leave it open and bleeding, at risk of infection and tissue damage.” She smoothed her hand down his arm, as if trying to coax him into relaxing into her touch. “Will you trust me to help you?”

“I don’t like you touching me.”

“I know, and I’ll be as quick about it as I can, I promise. May I have your permission just for this?”

He took a deep breath, trying to ignore the way her hand felt on his arm; when he risked looking at her, she wasn’t laughing at his cowardice like he’d feared. She wasn’t even smiling, her expression solemn as she waited for his answer.

She honestly meant the question with sincerity- she was _actually_ waiting for his consent.

“I’m...” The word was barely a croak, but she didn’t laugh at the fumble. He swallowed awkwardly and tried again. “Okay,” he said. And then he didn’t move.

After a moment, her lips quirked slightly, as if she was fighting back a smile. “You’re going to actually have to give me your arm, Thexan,” she said gently, her hand sliding up to his wrist, as if she meant to pry it away from him.

“I know,” he said quickly, letting out a shaky breath. “Just- give me a moment.”

“Of course,” she said, her thumb rubbing softly back and forth over the curve of his wrist. “Are you not accustomed to injuries?”

The laugh that escaped from him was short and sharp, bordering on slightly panicked. “I assure you, I am well accustomed to injuries.” _How else was I supposed to learn?_ “I’m not, however, accustomed to... physical contact.”

“Really?”

It took the edge off the panic, and he looked at her as incredulously. “I am a prince of Zakuul, and my father dethroned a god,” he said caustically. “Who would _dare_ to touch me?”

She raised her eyebrows, and tugged on his arm. He resisted for a moment, and then finally let her guide his arm down to rest across both of their thighs. “Hmm, I don’t know,” she said casually, almost as if she was teasing him. The change of pressure on the wound caused a fresh surge of blood to well up against his skin, spilling down the sides of his arm; she had anticipated that, however, and lifted his arm to settle a sterile cloth beneath. “I would assume there would be medics, teachers, perhaps other nobles of the court...”

“And what would a Jedi know of life at court?”

Ona’la was swabbing at the skin with some kind of chemical wipe, broad strokes that cleared away the worst of the blood. “I spent enough time on Coruscant, and Alderaan and the like, to have a basic grasp of courtly etiquette,” she said, dabbing at the wound directly to try and get a good look at it. He winced, and she murmured an apology as she gently cleaned the wound with an irrigator. “And then once my star seemed determined to rise despite my objections, there were any number of invitations and supplications for aid and assistance, a great many of which seemed to just be a desire to use my good favour as a means to outplay a rival.”

“So, some nobles used your name as a ploy in a game, that means you understand?”

Her lips twitched again. “Apparently not,” she said wryly, carefully applying a line of kolto gel over the broken skin. “By all means, you’re welcome to correct me.”

It was cold, and it stung, and he gritted his teeth against the pain. “You are an outsider, and a novelty. You never had to live it day to day for years on end.”

“Oh, I’m well aware of that,” she said, smoothing the gel over the entirety of the wound before pressing a neat square of sterile gauze over the crook of his elbow. “I received enough marriage proposals on a regular basis to be intensely grateful that I am nothing more than a brief interloper in such a world.”

He blinked. “Marriage... but you’re a Jedi?”

“Sterling observation,” she said wryly, taking his other hand in hers and positioning his finger to hold the gauze pad in place. “But it’s like you say- I’m a novelty. And what would be more novel than winning the hand of the greatest hero in the Republic, and a Jedi at that.”

There was the faintest trace of sarcasm in her words, and he watched her face carefully while she concentrated on setting the gauze securely in place with medical tape. “I was under the impression Jedi didn’t marry,” he said, not so much a question as a statement of fact.

She shrugged, as if unconcerned. “The Jedi are amassed from a great many cultures and species, and while for the most part it’s preferred for members of the Order to abstain from any sort of personal relationship, it’s hardly set in stone. Certainly it’s easier, or at least I always found it easier, but people can and do seek special dispensation from the Council.”

“And why didn’t you?”

She looked up at him, startled. “For _whom?_ ” she asked, her tone incredulous.

It was his turn to shrug, moving his finger away from the gauze when she took over again. “I don’t know,” he said, “maybe one of your dozens of eager suitors that you were bragging about a moment ago.”

Ona’la huffed out a breath of annoyance, her brow furrowed as she presumably tried to keep everything settled without making it too tight on his arm. “I wasn’t _bragging_ ,” she said, a trace of irritation in her voice. “I was trying to make a point, that I wasn’t completely ignorant to the sort of lifestyle you mentioned.”

“You have no idea what my _lifestyle_ was like,” he said, the words suddenly sharp; the strange rapport that had been building between them was gone like that, with the ugly reminder that she thought his life to be galas and parties and unending luxury. The fact that he’d had everything he could have ever desired at his fingertips did not preclude the painful reality that was his life- or _had_ been his life, rather. A weapon, an extension of his father’s will, a blank canvas upon which Valkorion had ruthlessly painted his need for a loyal, violent servant. Not a son.

Before he could pull away, she quickly wrapped a thick bandage around his arm, the fabric mesh peculiarly sticky; the reason for that became apparent a moment later when it stuck to itself and stayed in place where she set it. She clipped what looked to be some sort of microchip to the seam, and when she pressed a button it buzzed cheerfully, and the bandage slowly tightened until it was comfortably restrictive without being irksome or painful.

“You can adjust the settings using this,” she said quietly, twisting it enough that he could see the face of the chip. “That little switch on that edge, you can slide that to fiddle with the compression levels. If it gets uncomfortable at all.”

Her abrupt change in mood and conversation left him in a bit of a lurch, and it took him a moment to get his thoughts back on track. “I- am familiar with this sort of device,” he said, when he fumbled trying to find something to say that wasn’t _thank you_.

“That’s good,” she said, cleaning off her bloodied fingers on more of the chemical wipes before collecting all the soiled bits of cloth and tissue and sealing them in a waste disposal vacuum pack. “We’ll give it a day or two, to see what the damage to your veins is- I don’t want to be jumping onto suggesting microsurgery unnecessarily. Now that the inflammation has been dealt with, and the wound has been irrigated, it should have an easier time of closing up naturally.”

He pressed his hand to his bandaged elbow, moving his arm experimentally. “Don’t Jedi have fancy healing techniques in the Force?” he asked.

“We do,” she said simply, and then refused to continue.

“Didn’t you have a physician on your ship who should have done this sort of thing?”

She kept putting the medical equipment away. “I did,” she said, still refusing to elaborate.

He grunted in frustration. “Well then, why this?” he asked, gesturing to his bandaged arm.

Ona’la’s lips thinned, as if his constant badgering was finally wearing at her nerves. “Because much as I would prefer otherwise, my healing skills are hardly my strength, and you are already suspicious enough of my intentions without me trying and failing to heal you, so that you can use that against me as proof of my villainy.” She rather pointedly took a breath and closed her eyes for a moment, as if she was fighting with her temper. “And my staff physician did not- he did not travel with me often.”

“Why?”

“Because I do not _appreciate_ relentlessly persistent _men_ who cannot take a _hint_ ,” she said loudly, and then closed her eyes, as if she immediately regretted the outburst.

That was- he was fairly certain that was directed as much at him as it was at her doctor friend.

He felt peculiarly shamed by that thought.

She took a loud breath, as if getting herself back under control, and then said quietly “I apologize, Thexan.”

“You don’t have to keep _apologizing_ ,” he said curtly, because stars above why did she keep wanting to make herself out to be the villain?

“I don’t want you to feel disrespected at all.”

He closed his eyes, because he didn’t want to look at her and feel guilty for the way she continued to treat him like an equal and a friend. “I- don’t, feel disrespected I mean,” he said from between gritted teeth. “I am- grateful.”

She didn’t answer, and he risked opening his eyes to look at her.

There was a faint smile on her lips, but her eyes were sad as she stared down at her hands. “I’m glad,” she said softly.

* * *

_Yavin 4, Yavin System, Outer Rim Territories_

“Lord Beniko has been difficult to reach, my Lord,” Quinn said, his image flickering on the pocket comm that Tahrin had set on the balcony wall before her. “She had contingencies in place, that much we know, so it is unlikely she was killed in the conflict.”

Tahrin breathed out slowly through her nose, drumming her fingers on the wall as she stared out over the jungle, the comm unit providing the only light against the somewhat oppressive intensity of the night. “She is not dead,” she said slowly, as if considering each word before she spoke it. “I would know, if that were the case.”

“As you say, my Lord. I will renew our efforts to find her most fervently.”

Something large and heavy detached itself from the jungle, wings flapping gracelessly as it sought to gain altitude in the still air; she watched it, a dark shadow against the pale light of the stars, making sure it did not angle itself towards the mesa. There was an mournful cry, something bestial and skin-crawling, and then it was soaring off towards the west, in search of prey or a mate or some other primal urge in the darkness. “I am concerned that she will try to go back for Nox,” she said quietly, watching the shadow until it vanished, swallowed up by the greater darkness of the night. “If she returns to Zakuul so soon after Vitiate’s death...”

“Lord Beniko was a sensible woman, my Lord. I am certain that will not be the case.”

“She is still a Sith,” Tahrin corrected. “Still bound by her passions. When the life of someone you care for is threatened, well...” She looked down to the comm, smiling coldly at him. “You have first hand experience of what a Sith is capable of in that moment.”

“I, ah.... of course, my Lord.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “How irresponsible of me to forget.”

He hadn’t forgotten, she knew that. He would never forget.

“It is not an irrevocable tragedy if she lands on Dromund Kaas before we make contact,” Tahrin said, continuing as if nothing was amiss, “but I would prefer to have spoken to her and warned her of the change of circumstances before any other Council factions have a chance to sway her.”

“I can contact Darth Vowrawn’s staff in the interim and have him on standby, should the unavoidable occur.”

She hummed in consideration. “Yes,” she said simply, “but don’t rely on it as foolproof. Vowrawn is with me for the time being because it furthers his own goals to ally himself with me. That could change at any moment.”

“Of course, my Lord. I will monitor the situation-”

“Quinny boy.” At the sound of the rumbling drawl from the darkness behind her, Tahrin smiled faintly; Quinn, on the comms display, scowled so severely she could practically hear his teeth grinding through the static. “Still using too many big words to be a suckup, are we?”

“Which word did you find confusing, Lieutenant- was it ‘ _of_ ’ or was it ‘ _the_ ’? I realise that being the first of your species to develop speech makes things harder for you, I shall endeavour to be more courteous of your limitations.”

Pierce loomed out of the darkness beside her, his vest sleeveless despite the chill in the air; Tahrin appreciated his current penchant for casual wear, instead of his armour. She appreciated it immensely. “Still all piss and vinegar, aren’t you Quinny boy,” he said, leaning on the balcony and looming far too close to the comms. “Thinking you got your spine back ‘cause she still won’t let me kill you.”

“If that will be all, Lord Dara,” Quinn said, pointedly looking at Tahrin instead of Pierce.

“That will be all, for now,” she said in agreement. “Keep me updated on any changes.”

“Of course.” He bowed his head briefly, and then the connection faded.

Tahrin sighed, rolling her head from side to side. “Was the aggravation necessary, Gabriel?”

“What sort of question is that? You asked me not to blow his treacherous brains out the back of his skull, I did that- I ain’t gonna play nice with him just ‘cause the dog wants to slink back into the house like it didn’t just piss on the rug.”

“ _Gabriel_.”

“What?” He grinned roguishly at her. “You can’t tell me I’m wrong.”

She fought off a brief smile, shaking her head. “I apparently can’t tell you anything, you brute,” she said fondly.

He came up behind her as she stared out into the dark, wrapping his arms around her and tugging her back against the wall of his chest; he was like a heating conduit disguised as a human, and against the chill of the night he was a most blessed relief. “Kids are down for the night,” he said, one of his meaty paws lingering somewhat suggestively under the curve of her breast before settling flat and warm against her ribs. “Vaane’s been all worked up ‘bout his teeth, but he went out like a light once he got some attention.”

She smiled faintly. “He’s exhausted,” she said, “I can’t say that I blame him.”

“All pouty lips and puffy eyes, that one, he don’t know how to just ask.” He rested his chin on top of her head. “Reminds me of some other people I know.”

Tahrin huffed out a breath that could probably be considered a laugh if one were being generous. “He is simply overshadowed by his sister,” she said pointedly. “Once he learns that it is perfectly acceptable for him to speak up, he will be fine.”

“Mmm, speaking up’s all well and good, as long as there ain’t someone else shouting right next to you.”

“Oh, so your daughter was shouting now?”

“Oh I get it, she’s my daughter when she’s squallin’, is that it?”

She smiled, relaxed against him; how strange that such a man had come to feel like one of her greatest sources of safety. “Something like that.”

“Well, in that case, my brattish daughter Connie-”

“Constance.”

“ _Connie_ , you let me pick the name and we ain’t calling a bub by a fancy arse name like Constance, we sound like twats.”

“Oh, you object to formal names, do you Gabriel?”

He shifted behind her, and she tilted her head up to see his pained expression, grinning up at him.

“As much as it’d shit me off if it were anyone else,” he said, poking her firmly on the tip of her nose, “I’m stupid fond of how you say it.”

“Why, Gabriel, I’m flattered.”

“Don’t let it go to your head, it won’t happen again.”

She lowered her chin, dropping his gaze to look back out over the jungle. For a moment it was quiet, and for a moment she could pretend that there was nothing more pressing for her attention than the fact that her infant children were teething, and that their father appeared to be in a particularly amorous mood, if she was reading his cues correctly.

But the galaxy did not stop at the edges of the mesa, and there was a vast and complicated mess out amongst the stars growing ever more tangled by the day; there were even longer snarls that reached as far as their own backyard.

She sighed quietly, accepting the inevitable. “How did you fare today?” she asked.

His sigh was far louder and more reluctant. “About what you’d expect,” he said, his voice rumbling through his wide chest. “Imperial guard are a balmy lot at the best, but they didn’t take kindly to whatever that death wave thing was.”

“I already explained that, it was Vitiate’s death-”

“Death wave thing, got it.” He chuckled at her growl of disapproval. “Anyway, since you asked- we think we found the place you described.”

Tahrin went still, and the hand resting on his arm slowly tensed into a rigid claw. “You think?” she asked quietly, after several terse, silent moments.

“Alright, yeah, we’re pretty certain it’s the place, short of you coming and taking a poke around yourself,” he said; one of his hands was on her hip, and he was gently rubbing back and forth over the curve, a gesture that was meant as a comfort, not an invitation. He didn’t make any attempt to pull away, or to unhook where her nails were digging into his jacket. “We matched the layout to the blueprints you gave, and it- it was still equipped. Computers and gear and shit.”

“And the facility is empty? It shows no evidence of recent inhabitance?”

“None that the boys could see, love.”

She exhaled slowly. “Good,” she said softly. “ _Burn it_.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for brief suicidal ideation

She was dying.

Eriadu was an industrial world, the atmosphere thick with pollution; she could feel it in her lungs when she tried to keep breathing, despite the agonising cramp in between her ribs. It wasn’t as bad as the mines, but it was enough that she could taste the grit and the chemicals in the air with every single breath, the faint sting in the back of her nose as it burned at her sinuses. It made it harder to keep fighting, harder to push onwards, when that alone was enough to dredge up panicked memories and threaten her fragile control of her emotions. And then one of _them_ would feint towards her from one direction while the other tried to lunge from the other, and she had to guess which was which, and she didn’t have time for the horror of childhood memories when she was engaged in yet another horror in a lifelong string of them.

She could only keep breathing, no matter how much it hurt, no matter how hard it was, no matter the panic that surged up inside of her and threatened to bubble up and out. The cramp in her ribs was so extraordinarily painful that she was certain her bones were about to crack, and her arms and shoulders ached like nothing else from the constant effort of parrying and blocking the powerful strikes of her opponents.

They hunted her- like an animal, they stalked and harried her, and between the two of them she could not get a single moment of reprieve to try and catch her breath or correct her footing. She was going to die here, of that she had no doubt.

Gold sliced through the air around her in increasingly tighter circles, bright and brilliant and glorious; the strike and shriek of sabers clashing masked the distant sounds of the greater conflict, the Republic soldiers trying to hold back the lines of faceless gold-clad warriors who took no prisoners and made no demands. Their only goal seemed to be destruction.

And the men in white and black were no different.

Sith always delighted in mockery and vainglorious battle cries, all but running a commentary on their performance and that of their opponents- the men in black and white did not speak a word. No sneering criticism of her style and stance, no pre-emptive celebration informing her of her imminent defeat. Nothing. They fought in silence but for the inevitable grunts of effort and snarled curses when they did not slide out of reach of her blade fast enough, and were all the more terrifying for it.

She wasn’t bleeding, thank the goddess, but the heat of their blades had burned her in a dozen places, and the close combat of their fight had left her with bruises from elbows and hilts in half a dozen more. She was so exhausted, more tired than she could ever remember being before in her life; she was going to die, but the longer she held on, the longer the Republic ground forces would have to get the citizens into transports or out of the city. The golden armies were never interested in occupation, only conquest, and once they deemed themselves satisfied with their destruction here on Eriadu, they would move on.

 _Hold on,_ she chanted internally over and over and over. _Hold on, hold on. Just a little longer._

She wished she’d done so many things differently- she wished she’d had a chance to find her parents again, to see if they’d survived whatever nightmarish fate the slavers had had in store for them when they’d dragged their family apart. She wished she’d saved Uphrades, and Ziost, and every Sith she’d faced across joined blades throughout the years. She wished she’d been faster, for her Master’s sake, and she wished she’d been a better Jedi.

She wished she wasn’t grateful that it was all about to end.

The gold spun ever closer, each blow a little harder to block, each time a little slower to parry; she had burns across her knuckles where the sabers had struck a glancing blow when they’d slid off of her defence. Everything hurt, everything burned, and goddess above, she wasn’t scared to die but she wasn’t ready.

_She wasn’t ready._

She felt it coming, like it was in slow motion- she felt the moment her guard failed, when her strength abandoned her and she stumbled, and she knew it was coming. There was relief there, blessed drunken relief at being finally done with it all, but there was terror too- she was at the end of her endurance, physically and emotionally, _and goddess please, let it be quick._

The man in black was in her field of vision- she could not see the man in white, she had no idea which of them had tripped her- and as her lightsaber fell from numb fingers, she held out a hand to him in supplication.

“Thexan,” she croaked, begging, pleading, desperate. _End it, save me, let me go, let me die_. “ _Please_.”

There was no flicker of recognition in his face, and she was too far gone to notice whether the killing blow came from him or from his brother.

Ona’la woke in a lurching panic, a scream on her lips and tears on her face and the blankets wrapped tight around her legs from her thrashing; she went to stand, to stumble out of the bed so that she could escape, so that she could prove to herself that she was definitely awake and not dead on the steps of Eriadu City’s spaceport, but she was trapped in the snug binding of the blankets.

She fell out of the bed, briefly winded by the impact of her hip against the floor, but the only thing that did was make the panic worse- she couldn’t breathe, just like on Eriadu, and she could still feel the cramp between her ribs, oh goddess, she could still feel the weight and the pain in her arms. The tears had already begun before she’d woken, and it was impossible to stop them now, not with the memory still clinging so close to her that her skin felt grimy from the pollution in the air.

She was safe, she was on the _Illustrious_ , and Eriadu was four months behind her.

She curled her legs up close to her chest as she lay on the floor, sobbing.

She fell asleep there, exhausted.

* * *

Beyond the windows, the stars spun against the inky backdrop of infinity. The Spire was a marvel of technology and ingenuity, soaring up from the murky, fetid swamps of Zakuul proper until it broke through the clouds and burst clear of the atmosphere itself, surrounded by nothing but the cold, crisp darkness of space.

He enjoyed the solitude that came at this height, staring out into the darkness with nothing between him and the stars but a thin barrier of glass. It was breathtaking, in a terrifying sort of way, watching the way his breath fogged the glass if he stood too close, watching the faint sparkles of light far below him whenever the cloud cover broke long enough for the glowing lights of Zakuul to reach him.

He had stars above and below him, and a precious moment of peace that was his alone.

“ _You’re_ gonna miss the dinner,” came a sing-song voice behind him, and he smiled briefly at the sound of his sister’s voice. She cackled delightedly, and he wasn’t sure whether she was sharing the momentary amusement with him, or whether she was laughing at the prospect of him being disciplined by their father for being late to an official function.

“You will too, Vaylin,” he said pointedly, hands clasped loosely behind his back as he kept staring out at the stars.

“Mmm, but I’m hardly the hero of the hour, am I now?” She came up beside him, joining him at the window as she swung her arms aimlessly at her sides. “Besides, Father loves me the most. He forgives me for everything.”

Not enough that he didn’t feel it necessary to place shackles on her, of course, but she’d been doing extraordinary things these last few months, enough that he had to wonder if those blocks were still in place. Her power was a living thing around her, and he had been gone from Zakuul for nearly four months, but it seemed to him as if she was far more self contained and self assured than she had been when they’d left. It felt less like their Father’s will impressed upon her and more like her own attempts at control.

He hadn’t brought it up, however- didn’t particularly seem like the sort of thing that was appropriate for him to ask of his sister.

“What are you doing?”

His lips quirked as if he’d gone to smile and thought better of it. “Gathering my strength,” he answered simply, because it was the truth.

“Ooooh, gathering your strength, you big weakling- kidding, kidding,” she said, laughing when he turned his gaze in her direction with eyebrows raised. “Aren’t you at least excited?”

He shrugged, because it was probably the best answer he could give.

Arcann would be excited, of course- he’d been agitated and worked up in the hours leading up to this evening, and it was unlikely anything had changed in the interim. Theirs was a glorious victory, and they would be celebrated for years to come for what they’d achieved in so short a space of time. The Empire of Zakuul stretched from one side of the galaxy to the other, united by their work-

-he frowned, shaking his head as if an intrusive thought had lurched into his head.

“What’s got into you?” Vaylin was still swinging her arms, clicking her fingers to some mysterious rhythm that made sense only to her.

“Where’s Arcann?” he asked, confused that he even needed to ask the question. He always knew where Arcann was, without even needing to concentrate- whatever connection they had as siblings had always been excessively amplified through the Force, so much so that he’d always had a sense of him, an awareness of him, no matter where they were or what had come between them. It was nothing extraordinary- no psychic conversations or secretive twin synchronisation, but it was enough that he’d always been able to feel his brother as if his heartbeat was an echo of his.

He felt nothing.

“Arcann? He’s down at the function already, saw him go in with Father. Looked all fancy in his new robes.”

 _He couldn’t feel him_. “And you saw him? He was there? Alive?”

She laughed at him, a slight mocking edge to the sound. “Look at you, all panicked ‘cause he’s not here to hold your hand. Want me to fetch him, so you can walk in arm in arm?”

He grabbed for her, for something to help him keep his balance, his hand closing tightly around her wrist as he pulled her back around to face him. “I can’t _feel_ him,” he said, panic creeping into his voice as he willed her to understand.

But Vaylin just looked at him pityingly as she placed her free hand on his shoulder. “That’s your fault, brother,” she said, cruel glee glittering in her eyes as she pulled herself out of his grasp. “Not his.”

“Vaylin, _help_ -”

“This is _your_ fault, brother.”

Thexan came awake with a panicked growl, the shout dying on his lips as he lurched into a sitting position in the darkened room; his heart was racing and his chest was heaving, and the lights slowly turned on in response to his movement. His stomach _burned_ , the scar aching as if he’d just spent the day in endurance training, and with a frustrated growl he pressed his fists against the worst of the pain, bowing his head as he sucked in air from between his gritted teeth.

He was safe. He was alive. More importantly, _Arcann_ was alive because of his sacrifice.

So he hadn’t been able to sense his brother once since his capture- so what? The loss of that connection was a small price to pay for his brother’s life.

Stars above, but he missed him; it was like a missing limb, a part of him that had always existed simply... gone.

When he could breath again, when the worst of the panic had bled away, he slumped back against the bed, staring at the ceiling.

It took a long time for the lights to go back down, and longer for him to fall into an exhausted sleep.

* * *

She’d seen them off, as was expected- she was the Minister for Sith Intelligence after all, and a great deal of the information that had allowed them to pinpoint the likely origin point of their opponents had come from her desk, through the efforts of her people. A fleet commanded by two of the most powerful sith in the galaxy, and certainly the two most influential members of the Dark Council- it was significant enough even without the fact that they would be accompanied by a Republic presence as well.

Historic, that was the word being passed around on the decks of the _Stygian Wrath_ , the Harrower-class dreadnought that was serving as the launching point for the expedition to Wild Space. Darth Marr’s personal flagship, the smaller Terminus-class destroyer, was visible past the forcefields over the hangar bay doors, hanging suspended in the inky darkness in the Dromund system; in the hangar itself, two much smaller craft were waiting for their clearance for launch, expected to come in the next half hour once the flagship had finished its preparations.

One ship was sleek and pale, scarcely recognisable as an Imperial craft, and the other was dark and jagged, its shape and make unmistakeable; it was somewhat of a fitting metaphor for the two commanders of each ship, really.

“I imagine you’ll want to attend to your crew,” Lana said, turning to the woman at her side. They could not have been a more peculiar pairing- she, with her demure sense of presentation and her stoic commitment to duty and loyalty, and Darth Nox, with her ostentatious and terrifying garb and her almost maniacal accumulation of power. Even now, prepped for the long flight she was about to take, Lana had donned nothing more intimidating than comfortable slacks and a sensible tunic, all in muted, darker tones. Kallathe, by comparison, was bedecked in scaled, corrupted leather and jagged spikes that matched the blood red spines along the curves of her body, her mask glittering with jewels carved to look like teeth and crowned with midnight black feathers that caught the light of the overhead insets.

She looked terrible and terrifying and somewhere in between- a ridiculous, nightmarish peacock strutting about in all of her malevolent glory.

Lana adored her.

“If my crew are not accustomed to my whims by now, then I’ve certainly been lax in my disciplinary attempts,” Kallathe said, the drawl to her voice sending a shiver up Lana’s spine. “They can prepare a ship for a simple hyperspace jump without supervision.”

“If you think it best.”

Kallathe’s smile beneath the mask was almost predatory. “And why would I be so impatient to rush off, when I find my current company far more... _satisfying_.”

There was something so rawly sexual about the way she purred the word, suggestive and lewd despite the relative innocence of the statement, that sent a rush of heat right through her. It brought to mind memories of recent nights, of heat and sweat and the brief, _wonderful_ sting of teeth over her skin.

“My lord, this is hardly the appropriate time or place,” Lana murmured, but she bit her lip all the same when Nox reached out and put her hand on her hip, tugging her marginally closer. Around them, the hangar bay was awash with activity, with last minute troop transfers being made and fighters being refuelled before being sent across to the flagship with their pilots.

With her free hand, Kallathe reached up and pulled her mask up and over her head, her hair tousled and vaguely sweaty from being enclosed for so long. It looked almost as if she’d come straight from bed, and _oh_ , didn’t that send wicked thoughts through her.

“There is nothing _appropriate_ about me,” Nox said, her voice a velvet purr that made her gasp softly, “and that’s why you _appreciate_ me so very much.”

And then she kissed her, right there in the hangar bay, with dozens of Imperial soldiers milling about to witness the moment; there was nothing subtle about it either. Lana had a few inches on Kallathe, but she still felt her knees go weak at the way she kissed her. There was one hand in the small of her back and another on her cheek, and she could feel the delicate press of her gold clawed gloves against her skin- just enough pressure to make her gasp, not enough to offer more than a whisper of pain. Darth Nox was not hesitant at all about anything, and that included very pointedly and publicly making her claim on the woman who held her interest.

It should have been everything that Lana despised, blatant shows of power and aggressive passion, the sort of things that she found to be an ill-advised waste of time and energy.

 _Oh_ , but somehow none of that mattered when Kallathe kissed her like she wanted to devour her, her lips demanding and her teeth gentle when she nipped, uncaring of how the display might seem to those around them.

Lana took a shaky breath when Kallathe pulled far enough away to allow her to breathe again, a tremulous smile coming over her face. “And now how am I supposed to concentrate for the next few hours?” she asked, resting her forehead against Kallathe’s.

“Hmm.” One clawed finger trailed along the curve of her cheek, down towards her mouth. “Perhaps you could pass the time by dwelling upon your imminent betrayal of me.”

Lana’s eyes flew open, met by the sight of the bunk above her. The room was dark and silent but for the snores of the other crew- the other _agents_ , and that peculiar rattataki woman, who all seemed more comfortable with her presence in the crew quarters now after several weeks, but it still felt... odd. Bunking down with her subordinates.

The months spent living rough on Rishi had taken their toll on her sense of modesty.

She rolled over, rubbing at her eyes as she fought to dispel the sound of Kallathe’s voice; she swore she could still taste her on her tongue, despite the fact that it had been- well. Their last stolen moment on the deck of the _Stygian Wrath’s_ hangar bay seemed an eternity ago now, and though it had not ended on such a painful note, the accusation still echoed in her head all the same.

She wasn’t going to go back to sleep any time soon, she could tell; as silently as she could, she climbed from her bunk and scoured about in the relative darkness for a robe she could throw on over the top of her nightclothes.

Once in the hallway, she took a moment to take a deep breath, trying to settle her roiling emotions; perhaps meditation would do the trick. Or perhaps she’d just find herself in tears with the sound of Kallathe’s voice ringing accusingly in her head.

She wasn’t expecting to find anyone else up apart from the vaguely sinister droid to monitor their journey through hyperspace, but she wasn’t particularly surprised either to find Thessa sitting in the cockpit, clad in her own baggy sleep clothes. She swung a bare foot from her chair and looked up from the datapad that had her attention when Lana hesitated in the doorway.

It was almost freezing cold in the fore, and Lana wrapped her arms about her middle, fighting back a shiver. “I didn’t mean to disturb you,” she said, nodding back towards the door with a tilt of her head. “I can leave you to your solitude, if you wish.”

The chiss woman shook her head and gestured to one of the other chairs in the cabin. “Insomnia,” she said, by way of explanation; she reached for a section of the console and punched in a few buttons, and Lana _did_ shudder with relief when the air filtration returned to a far more sensible temperature. “If you need the company, I’ve no objections.”

Lana smiled weakly as she took the other seat. “Bad dreams,” she offered hesitantly, debating for a moment whether or not it was appropriate to share such things with a woman under her command. She was finding the lines of propriety and imperial conduct increasingly blurred this last year.

Thessa nodded solemnly. “I’m sure she’s fine,” she said, perceptive as always. She was a remarkable judge of body language, and ergo a remarkable agent- she wouldn’t be Watcher One, and Lana’s second in command, if that weren’t the case. “You’ve indicated that you would have- felt it? Or sensed it?”

Lana chewed on her lip. “Yes,” she said absently, staring out at the blue maelstrom beyond the viewport; Thessa hadn’t dimmed the windows, further increasing her suspicions that chiss eyes processed the nature of hyperspace differently to human eyes. “But I still- I can’t...”

_I can’t justify the fact that I chose to rescue a Jedi war hero instead of ensuring her safety._

The weary sigh Thessa let out made her glance in her direction. “We both know that- had you turned over those star maps- it would have jeopardised the stability of the alliance with the Ascendancy. As it is, for the time being, the onus of responsibility will fall on myself and Thake and the rest of our House, instead of on the Empire. The Empire needs the Ascendancy, now more than ever.”

Lana closed her eyes, feeling tears brimming there. “Please do not think me ungrateful,” she whispered, fighting with everything in her to stop the tears from spilling over. “I have no words to express how greatly I appreciate the sacrifice the two of you have made.”

Thessa didn’t answer immediately, and for a time Lana thought she meant not to answer at all; it was not until she thought the moment for a reply had passed entirely when she said quietly, “No less than what you have given, my Lord.”

If Thessa noticed her crying as they sat together in silence, she did not mention it.

* * *

Vaylin tugged absently on the hem of her sleeve, concentrating furiously on not letting her foot start to jiggle; although, after an hour and a half of relentlessly boring speeches and expressions of grief, what little patience she’d had to begin with was wearing dangerously thin.

“Stop fidgeting,” Arcann growled beside her, as still as a statue in his chair as he stared blankly out across the grand hall. They were alone on the sweeping arm of the dais, high enough that they were visible to the crowd, but not so close to the centre of proceedings that they became the focus of attention. Just enough to look like the perfect prince and princess- or emperor and princess now, rather- on display so that everyone could confirm that they were grieving appropriately but also to reinforce their positions now that Valkorion was gone.

She huffed out a breath, kicking her feet childishly- just the once though. She didn’t fancy trying his patience too much. “This is boring,” she said under her breath.

“If anyone hears you saying that-”

“No one’s going to hear me _say_ anything,” she said pointedly, a little louder this time. The hall was filled to capacity with hundreds of mourners, and the square outside was packed with tens of thousands more, all watching the funeral proceedings on the projection screens lining the streets. Beyond the actual ceremony proper, and the speeches involved, there seemed to be an endless cacophony of noise- wailing from incoherent mourners, grieving the loss of their god-king and protector; cries of anguished rage, calling for the death of the woman who had struck the killing blow; invocations of desperate prayers to gods that had gone unacknowledged since their father’s ascension so long ago. There was singing, and there was shouting, and above it all the keening, heart-wrenching sound of the people of Zakuul expressing their grief.

Stars above, it was so _annoying_.

“You could at least _try_ to look sad.”

She heaved out another breath, dragging out the sound to a grumbly sort of snarl. “You could at least try to make it seem like you didn’t try to _kill him_ twice, before giving up and getting someone else to do it for you,” she said, rolling her eyes at the way he growled under his breath at her. “What? I don’t see _you_ pretending to be all that sad.”

For the first time, she saw his gaze slide sideways, away from where Scion Heskal was proselytising at length at the podium, speaking on the nature of fate and destiny and the doom that was sure to befall them all. “And how do you suggest I would go about doing that?” he asked waspishly. “Short of removing my mask?”

Vaylin rolled her head to the side to look at him, and smirked. “Could always get a box of paints, draw a big pair of lips on you and make them all sad and weepy.”

Arcann stared at her for a few moments, and then looked away without responding.

She let out a frustrated snarl under her breath, kicking her legs again. “Thexan would’ve laughed,” she said.

“ _Thexan_ isn’t _here_.”

“Mm, funny that- that’s your fault too.” Beside her, Arcann went rigid with fury, and she hid a grin behind her hand in case the stupid holocameras made another pass over their seats and everyone saw her on the screens with a smile on her face. “I wish you’d gotten father the first time.”

After a moment, he quite visibly deflated, the fight going out of him. “I wish I had too,” he said quietly.

“Arcann?”

“What?”

“Can you please get changed after the funeral? It’s really... weird. Seeing you in black.” She waited, but he didn’t answer. “Because you look too much like him,” she said, explaining it further.

“I _know_ what you meant,” he hissed. “You think I enjoy this? I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror this morning and I thought it was _him_.”

There was pain in his voice, so much pain, and as much as she loved to rile him up, it hurt her to hear it- one by one, the jagged pieces that made up their terrible little family were being chipped away. First mother, then Thexan, now father. They weren’t perfect, and they didn’t always get along, and sometimes she didn’t even particularly _like_ him, but she didn’t want to lose him too.

She reached across and took his hand in hers, lacing their fingers together and squeezing tight; he felt stiff and uncomfortable with the gesture for a moment, but then he relaxed, his fingers so much larger and warmer against hers. He glanced at her again, and for a moment his bravado and his anger slipped, and she could see the grief and the self loathing in his unmasked grey eye.

She smiled sadly, and squeezed his hand, because that was easier than trying to explain that she understood.

And that was the moment that the holocameras focused on them again, a young brother and sister in mourning, burdened with grief and towering responsibility but united as one. It was an image screened around Zakuul, and it was an image that renewed the people in the weeks to come.

They would have a new emperor, but the blood of the Immortal Master would guide them still.

* * *

“You have to understand our concerns, Master Jedi,” Captain Athalast said, drumming her fingers absently on the conference table. The other heads of department all nodded along in varying degrees of agreement, some far more vehemently than others. “We’ve got a good ten days left of travel, which is a long time with an unknown quantity on board like your friend is proving to be.”

“He’s not my friend,” Ona’la said quietly, staring off into nothing as her thoughts turned endlessly in her head.

“Regardless of what he is or isn’t, he’s already destroyed the contents of the secure med suite,” Security Chief Henriks said, his tone no less firm just because he spoke mildly. He took a sip of the drink in his hand, the sickly sweet scent of sugared caf thick in the air. “That’s thousands of credits worth of damage, and your assurances that it won’t happen again-”

“It _won’t_ ,” she said, a hint of irritation in her voice.

“-still doesn’t negate the fact that you fled from that suite in extreme distress, and were unable to assist the medical and security staff in subduing him.”

She closed her eyes, taking a slow, deep breath through her nose. “As I have already explained,” she said slowly, “those were exceptional circumstances, owing to the death of Vitiate. Thexan is unlikely to become violent without another trigger of equal or greater magnitude, and you can rest assured that there is certainly nothing of an even remotely similar nature likely to unsettle myself.”

“The young man has been remarkably stable, with the exception of that singular event,” Doctor Jobun said, and Ona’la cast him a grateful smile. “We have observed numerous instances of surges in his hormonal levels that indicate greater levels of stress, but he has not attempted to act on any of them.”

“You’re asking us to just _trust_ that he’s not gonna act out again,” Athalast said, her expression severe. “You’re asking us to endanger the safety of this vessel and this crew, on the assumption that should he try anything, you’ll be able to contain him.”

“I _will_ be able to contain him.” She looked Athalast firmly in the eye. “I have faced far greater opponents than the prince. He will not be a threat.”

Athalast let out a vaguely frustrated breath. “Don’t give me a reason to regret this, Battlemaster.”

* * *

“You have to understand our concerns, General Garza,” Lieutenant Jorgan said, casting a warning look at the woman beside him. She was tapping her fingers irritably on the wristguard of her armour, a familiar sign that her temper was wearing thin. “We’ve got a clear target, recently demoralized by the loss of their leader, and you’re asking us to sit on our hands.”

“Which is kriffin’ _bullshit_ ,” Ellaz snarled, and Aric’s ears twitched as he fought back a sigh. Garza, for her part, only raised her eyebrows at the Major’s outburst.

“Please, Major, by all means, tell me what you think,” Garza said smoothly, her tone showing that she was far less than amused by Ellaz’s attitude. “I’m curious to know where you gained access to superior field intelligence than myself and the rest of-”

“Don’t condescend me,” Ellaz said, hostile frustration in her voice.

“-Republic Military Command,” Garza finished, a steely glint in her eyes. “Given that we reviewed all available information and ruled against any sort of military action, covert or otherwise, your opinion is not only disrespectful but also exceedingly ill-advised, Major.”

Ellaz took a deep breath, as if she was about to launch into a furious tirade, and Aric casually reached out and put his hand on her elbow; she stopped cold, the contact a comfort and a reminder for her to watch herself, and her eyes darted to him momentarily before she hissed out a breath in frustration instead of anger. “As I have already pointed out _at length_ , sir,” she said slowly, clearly working hard to keep her temper down, “we left ourselves with our asses in the air by letting the Imps take point in the Alliance. We _should_ have had more than a token task force with them- _Havoc_ Squad should have been out there.”

“And Havoc Squad would currently be dead, just like two of the most powerful sith in the galaxy- unless you seem to think yourself more durable than an individual like Darth Marr, or Darth Nox?”

“You have no guarantee that that would be the case,” Ellaz argued stubbornly. “As a black ops unit, our entire purpose is to take on missions of exceptional risk-”

“As long as the benefit to the Republic outweighs the cost of the risk,” Garza finished for her. “In this instance, it was determined that the risk outweighed the benefits. I expect you to respect that decision, Major.”

Ellaz finally backed down, subdued for the moment. “Yes, sir,” she said, only slightly sullen.

“And in the meantime,” Garza continued, “be ready for deployment at any given moment. There’s more afoot than you- _either_ of you- realise.”

* * *

“You have to understand our concerns, Agent Shan,” Director Trant said, tapping his fingers against the datapad he held loosely in one hand. His dark brown eyes seemed to cut right through him, as always. “Ziost was an unmitigated disaster, on every conceivable level, and Saresh has been breathing down my neck for months now.”

“It’s only the _eighth_ time you’ve called me in for disciplinary action over it, sir,” Theron said flatly, shoulders stiff as he stood before the Director’s desk. “I don’t know if it’s had enough of a chance to sink in yet, do you?”

“Theron, your _own man_ betrayed you, and undoubtedly made this whole thing worse by running off to Saresh to tattle,” Trant said, the weary annoyance in his tone no different from the last few times they’d met. “If you can’t keep your own team in line-”

“I work better in solo ops, and you know it.”

“-then I’m yet to understand why we should be throwing resources at you to cater to your ego and your need to cultivate the broody lone agent persona.”

Theron took the words in, then blinked; he put his hands on his hips as he tried to find another way to interpret that statement, finding nothing. “Forgive me for stating the obvious, sir,” he said slowly, “but my track record should speak for itself, and the fact that the Supreme Chancellor chose to run her own operations strictly to undermine us- proving, by the way, how little faith she places in the agency- shouldn’t be a mark against me.”

“You lost us the Sixth Line, Theron. Grand Master Shan has forbade them from working with the SIS for the foreseeable future- those of them that are left alive, that is.”

He closed his eyes, trying to deny what was happening. “That wasn’t-”

“Saresh has very publicly stated her dissatisfaction with the agency, hugely undermining our credibility and our access to public funding.”

“That’s hardly-”

“And now, _despite_ the repeated disciplinary actions taken against you, _despite_ being placed on paid administrative leave, and _then_ elevated to unpaid administrative leave, you _still_ make use of agency resources when you know you’re being monitored to make contact with Imperial space.”

There was nothing else for it; he might as well try and go out with some shred of his dignity intact. He raised both eyebrows, as if nonplussed by the accusation. “That all you got?” he drawled, pleased at least to see Trant’s face contract in anger.

“Theron, _what_ were you _thinking_?”

He didn’t have any need to lie, so he shrugged. “Helping a friend,” he said, knowing the vague answer would only piss him off more.

“ _What_ friend?”

“Battlemaster Ona’la.”

“Battlemas-” Trant didn’t even finish her title before he covered his face with both hands. “You want to stand there and tell me that the Battlemaster of the Jedi Order, five minutes after getting rescued from those Eternal Empire assholes, was on the holo to you asking you to place numerous calls to Imp space.”

“Helping a friend, sir.”

“To do _what_?”

Theron let out a sigh. “With literally no due respect sir, we both know you’ve essentially told me I’m being fired, so why not just make it official and get it over and done with?”

“Fine, you know what? You’re fired, Shan. Get out of my office.”

“With pleasure, _sir_ ,” Theron drawled, sketching a mocking salute towards his former boss before turning and stalking towards the door. Kriff, and he couldn’t even have the satisfaction of letting the door slam loudly behind him; stupid fucking automated doors and their-

“Agent Shan?”

He glanced to his left, finding a relatively non-descript older gentleman standing just a little way past Trant’s door. “I’m afraid the ‘ _agent_ ’ isn’t quite applicable at the moment,” he said ruefully, rubbing at the back of his neck; kriff, but everything ached and right now he just wanted to go to the nearest bar and get very painfully drunk. “But yes, hi- can I help you with something?”

“I believe it’s more that I can do something to help you.”

That was... intriguingly sinister. Wasn’t like he had a whole lot to lose at the moment though. “Alright,” he said, turning to face him and stuffing his hands into his pockets; nonchalance might win him a little more of an advantage if the other guy thought he wasn’t that interested. “I’ll bite. Who are you, and what do you want from me?”

The stranger smiled warmly. “My name is Ardun Kothe,” he said, “and if you’re trying to make contact with Imp space- especially with any sort of discretion-, I believe I can be of assistance. We have mutual friends who would be quite relieved to hear from you.”

* * *

“I’m sorry, sir- er, your Highness.” The voice coming through the intercom was distorted, almost robotic in tone. One of their troopers, perhaps, so terrified of him that they cowered in the hallway wearing full powersuits. “The Battlemaster is not available at the moment.”

Thexan let his head fall back against the wall, glaring up at the intercom unit from where he sat on the floor. “Well, when _will_ she be available?”

“That’s... not for me to say, your Highness. I will pass on that you enquired after her.”

He closed his eyes. “Tell her I can tell she’s hiding from me.”

The silence that came through the comm was so awkward it was physically painful. “I, uh... I’ll pass on your regards, sir. Your Highness.”

He covered his face with his hand, and tried to convince himself that he wasn’t agonizingly lonely. She couldn’t ignore him for the entirety of the trip to Coruscant, could she?

“Please do,” he said.


	10. Chapter 10

“Attention, all hands.”

Ona’la didn’t pause as she dressed herself slowly in her battle robes, knowing what the announcement would be, and already dreading it.

“In about two hours time, we’ll be beginning the procedure to decelerate and drop out of hyperspace, coming out in the Coruscant subsector of the Corusca sector. We should arrive at the satellite dock above Coruscant a short time later.”

She sat down on the edge of the bed to tug on her delicate stockings, rolling them up to her knee beneath her crisp white pants. Her boots- freshly polished and with new lacre applied to the swirling designs- followed shortly after, and she tucked her pants down inside the top of them before climbing to her feet.

“Standard docking procedures will apply, and pending any updates from Command once we break hyperspace, all shore leave applications submitted to department chiefs within the allotted time frame will stand.”

Just as expected, she felt Thexan’s presence push up against her awareness, and she sighed in resignation; he’d been utterly relentless these past two weeks, trying desperately to get her attention at what had felt like every moment of the day and night. So many times she’d felt her resolve crack and threaten to crumble, particularly late at night when he seemed less guarded and she could catch shadows of grief and loneliness and self-loathing in him, and everything in her cried out with the need to do _good_ and reach out to comfort him.

But then she’d force herself to remember him as the man she had faced on Eriadu, and every snarled insult and sullen moment of disrespect he’d offered her in the time since. And when that inevitably wasn’t enough to quell the desire in her heart to try and help him, she’d close her eyes and count the days until Coruscant and the moment when he’d be taken away from her protection. The Republic and the Jedi both would oppose her interest in him, so she told herself it would hurt less if she began to pull away early.

He was alive, and he was regaining his strength and his health, and that was all she could ask for. She hadn’t had any more brilliant flashes of insight as to why she might have been drawn to him in the first place, so she’d tried to accept that once they arrived in Coruscant, he would belong to the Republic.

So she’d pulled away.

Thexan hadn’t taken it well. There were no more tantrums like the moment when Vitiate had died, which she counted as a blessing, but he was clearly frustrated at her avoidance of him. He sent messages through the staff constantly, asking after her, and he prodded at her incessantly- she had no idea if he could sense her emotions and her irritation at him in turn as she could sense his, but she was certainly less than polite with her moods if that was the case. If he _had_ been able to sense her waspishness, it hadn’t dissuaded him in the slightest.

It hadn’t helped that- with eight days to go until they reached Coruscant-, she’d been struck by the most appalling cramps and menstrual sickness, her body trying to stutter back to some semblance of normalcy after months locked away in stasis. In some ways, it was sort of a double edged sword, because although she felt utterly repulsive and miserable for days, it soothed her guilt at not going to fuss over Thexan whenever he once again tried to demand her presence.

It was a little easier to turn down such petulant commands when she was doubled over in her room with cramps so bad her lekku had curled cringingly up against her back.

That was behind her for the time being, and assuming her body settled back into some vague notion of healthfulness, she would likely be free of the inconvenience for another two or three months. Twi’lek biology being what it was, she was blessedly lucky to go far longer between her cycles than most humans- Kira had grumbled at her incessantly in the years they’d travelled together, most put out by the fact that her menses happened twice as often as hers did.

But now they were home- or rather, they were at the centre of the Republic and a place where she had lived for many years, which for most people seemed to mean home. She wasn’t sure what she wanted to call it, because home was an awkward, uncomfortable concept for a woman who’d been forcibly taken from her family as a child, and it wasn’t precisely something she liked to spend time dwelling upon. They were in Coruscant, and assuming nothing drastic had changed during the time they’d been travelling through hyperspace, then in a few hours time she would land on the surface and be cheered home as if she were some great hero and conqueror instead of an exhausted prisoner-of-war, and Thexan would be taken into custody and placed on trial and... and that would be that.

She closed her eyes and tried to ignore the growing swell of grief and guilt that seemed determined to badger her no matter what she did.

It didn’t help that _Thexan_ seemed determined to badger her no matter what, either.

She finished her ablutions with more care than was probably necessary; she knew she was dragging her feet about going to see him, but knowing it didn’t precisely spur her into further action. The painted cosmetics over her eyes and onto her lips were applied with exquisite detail, and she fussed endlessly with her collar, trying to have it sit so that it covered as much of her scarring as possible. When she found herself staring at her reflection in the mirror without any idea of how long she’d been lost in her own thoughts, she knew she had to accept the inevitable.

The durasteel lockcase was sitting waiting on her bed, delivered to her some hours earlier from the stewards office; she’d sent it up to them over a week ago, in the hope that they had the technology on board to replicate the materials that made up Thexan’s armour. She could only hope he found the results to be satisfactory.

She picked it up carefully, holding it to her chest for a moment, before making her way into the hallway and down towards Thexan’s room.

Her heart was pounding so loudly that it was a surprise no one looked at her in alarm when she passed them; as it was, the trooper on duty outside Thexan’s door voiced what sounded like a cheerful greeting to her, but that may as well have been in ancient Rakata for all the sense it made to her. She smiled weakly at them, hoping that whatever they’d said to her didn’t require a response, and tried not to shiver when the door slid open in front of her.

Thexan’s room was tidy, which was a pleasant surprise in itself; the man himself was kneeling in a cleared space of the floor, his posture relaxed and his eyes closed while the energy of the Force whispered around him.

He looked good, she thought- far healthier, with more colour in his cheeks. He was possibly still a tad underweight, his cheekbones stark in his face; she wouldn’t go so far as to call him gaunt, but he’d obviously lost a lot of weight during his weeks in the kolto tank. His clothes were clean, and the bandage from his arm was gone, leaving a fresh pink scar puckered in the crook of his elbow, and someone had clearly allowed him access to a shaving kit at some point, given that the ragged shadow of stubble was no longer gracing his face.

“What do you want?” he asked flatly, not opening his eyes.

The slow build of goodwill in her went as flat as his tone, and she steeled herself. “We both know you heard the announcement,” she said, setting the durasteel case on the bed. “We’ll be arriving in Coruscant shortly.”

“Come to gloat over me one last time?”

“I’ve _never_ gloated over you, Thexan,” she said sharply, before she could restrain herself; she smoothed her hands down over her battle robes and took a calming breath. “I want to make this transfer as comfortable for you as possible-”

“Is that why you’ve been ignoring me?” He finally opened his eyes, and climbed to his feet. There was a little more energy in him, as if with his returning strength he’d found his spirit again, and when he moved, it was with far more confidence; he kept his shoulders back straight, instead of slightly hunched over, and he didn’t seem to immediately flinch towards protecting his stomach at the slightest provocation. “Because of some misplaced belief that that the incessant boredom will be good for me? Is it practice, for the next fifty years I spend locked away in your Republic prisons?”

She wanted to roll her eyes; somehow she contained herself. “Would you have accepted my company, Thexan?” she asked. “We aren’t friends, after all. It would have been five days of excessively uncomfortable stilted conversation-”

“Ten days.”

Ona’la gritted her teeth. “ _Five_ days,” she corrected. “I was indisposed for several days.”

He crossed his arms, something akin to a sneer on his face. “Doing what? Sitting about for your adoring public? Letting the little Republic soldiers fawn all over you?”

Goddess preserve her. “If you absolutely _must_ know, I had a severe bout of menstrual sickness. To be expected after extended periods of hibernation, I’m told.”

Thexan blinked, the aggression evaporating instantly. “That’s it?”

“That’s what?”

“That’s why you didn’t come to see me?”

“In part, yes.”

He nodded curtly. “I apologise, then. You should have sent word, I would not have been so persistent for your attention.”

That was absolutely the last response she was expecting from him. “Well, I... thank you,” she said hesitantly.

“I trust you are well now?” Alright, no, _that_ was absolutely the last response she’d been expecting from him. She knew she hadn’t been able to keep the incredulity from her face, because he snorted in amusement, his lips quirking as if he meant to smile. “What? Did you expect me to cringe and recoil in horror like a ignorant boy?”

“It didn’t strike me as something within your realm of expertise, no.”

He waved a hand dismissively. “I’m not claiming any extensive knowledge at all, merely that I’m aware of what the, uh...” He stumbled for the first time, the cold arrogance slipping ever so slightly as he gestured in her direction. “Of what it entails,” he finished after a moment of awkwardness.

It was somewhat of a relief to see him falter, for the persona of the haughty prince to slip for just a moment.

“I am well again, thank you,” she said, trying not to dwell on the fact that she was discussing her _menses_ with an enemy prince and the son of Vitiate. Her life seemed determined to take her on utterly bizarre turns, no matter what she did. “I am sorry I did not send word.”

He cleared his throat, as if trying to cover up the awkwardness. “Well, it’s done now. And it’s not as if it’s relevant given that in a few hours, I won’t be your responsibility anymore, will I?”

And straight back to the matter at hand, just like that. It hurt more than she wanted it to. “Of course,” she said softly; trying to catch herself before she let her emotions tug her away, she gestured to the case she’d left on the bed. “I thought you might appreciate something more appropriate to wear on your arrival.”

His eyes went immediately to the case, the silvery-grey darkening towards storminess. “I see,” he said simply, something vaguely ominous in his tone.

She tilted her head towards the door, one lek spilling over her shoulder. “Would you like me to leave you to prepare?” she asked, tucking it back behind her.

He didn’t answer her, instead crossing over to the bed to run his fingers over the corners of the case; there was a look on his face that made her want to shiver from the intensity of it, and she hid it with difficulty. When he lifted the lid on the case, she was watching his face, and she saw the seething wash of emotions that overtook him before he managed to hide it from her.

“Where did you get this?”

She watched as his fingers reached down to press against the black and gold of the armour, not stroking or grabbing, just... resting against it. “It was transferred over to the _Illustrious_ when we were,” she said. “I was still suffering from hibernation blindness at the time of your rescue, so I am not sure of the specifics...”

He lifted the armour from the case, holding it before him in silence as he stared. The moment felt almost excruciatingly private, and she almost wanted to slide quietly backwards and out of the door, to give him time to himself. She could sense the roiling emotions in him, belaying his outward calm, and she didn’t know whether he needed solitude or a friend.

_You aren’t his friend._

“Where is my lightsaber?”

She blinked, not expecting the abrupt turn in the conversation. “You know I can’t give it to you, Thexan,” she said quietly.

He closed his eyes as if in pain, but after a moment he made that same amused snort again. “Fitting,” he said, “given that I was the one who took yours.”

The reminder brought her recent nightmares lurching back into focus, and her hands tightened over each other where she had them clasped before her. It took her a moment to convince herself to breathe again, but her heart was already pounding ferociously from the rush of fear-induced adrenalin.

“I assume you need to escort me?”

She shook herself, trying to break away from the nightmare. “I do,” she said, clearing her throat when her voice came out a little hoarse. “Under Republic military regulations, all enemy Force users need to be restrained with stun cuffs, and accompanied by an Allied Force user of equal or greater strength.”

She saw him mouth ‘ _equal or greater strength_ ’ to himself, as if amused by it- she didn’t know if it was an insult to her or a mockery of his own significant talents. “I’ve not once worn stun cuffs during my time here.”

“I took them off you, while you were still unconscious. I didn’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

He stared down at the armour in his hands for a painfully long moment yet again. And then his attention shifted, his shoulders going tense as his gaze went past the armour and down into the case; his hand wasn’t shaking as he reached inside, but she got the impression it was a very near thing.

His fingers closed over something small, and it was only because she’d gone over the contents of the case thoroughly- to ensure there were no nasty surprises for her- that she knew it was a ring. It hadn’t been particularly ostentatious at all, a simple band of gold with a signet stamped upon it like a royal seal. His birthright, perhaps, something to signify his rank. Another reminder of the home he’d now lost.

He held it in his fist for a long moment, unmoving, and then he closed the lid of the case sharply and picked it up. “Wait here,” he said bluntly, with the tone of one used to being obeyed without question. It took everything in her not to throw her arms up in exasperation or pull a childish face at his back as he stalked into the refresher booth.

She closed her eyes instead, berating herself silently as she listened to him moving around as he dressed. _He’s not a pet, Ona’la,_ she told herself frankly. _Just because you can’t break your attachment to him doesn’t mean you can keep him._

She might have felt complete and utter certainty in the moment when she’d rescued him, but everything since then? She had no idea what she was doing, what she should do about _him_ , and it frustrated her more than she could rightly say.

By the end of the day, he was very likely going to be taken away from her, and she couldn’t express why that filled her with such _immense_ confusion. He wasn’t a prize, he wasn’t a trophy, he wasn’t anything more than-

-than a mortal man who was going to be subjected to immense humiliation and possibly physical pain, should Republic Command decide it in the best interests of all to interrogate him for any information he might hold.

 _He’s a war criminal,_ she told herself, putting a hand up to her forehead at the ache building there.

 _He’s an injured man, no less deserving of respect and rehabilitation than any other Sith or mercenary or enemy soldier you have faced across the years,_ she countered.

_You can’t fight the Council and the Senate and Republic Command for Vitiate’s son._

Oh stars. Oh goddess, _no_ \- but even as the objections bubbled up within her, she knew it was too late. Everything she was, everything she tried to uphold as good and right and admirable, none of that meant anything if she shrugged and walked away from this. Thexan had done great harm, true, but that didn’t negate the potential for him to do great good too- a potential that would never be seen if she held her tongue and let him be sentenced to death.

She had tried to save Vitiate, twice. She could do no less for his son.

And of course, that was the moment that he stepped back into the room, his head bowed as he smoothed down the faint creases on his newly mended armour. Of course it would be while she was grappling with a monumental moral quandary that had the potential to unbalance the entirety of the galaxy.

And he looked _extraordinary_.

There was that knee jerk reaction in her gut, the lurching moment of panic when she turned to see him as she’d seen him across the battlefield so many months ago, but she’d been preparing herself for this eventuality for days now, and it was only the work of a moment to bring herself back under control again. Once that momentary flicker of alarm passed, once she was calm again, the only thing she could think was how magnificent he looked in the black and the gold, how very princely and striking.

Without the flurry of battle, she could take a moment to appreciate just how carefully it had been tailored to his form, the way each line and seam seemed to work to flatter his shape. The gold highlights across the black were carefully placed to draw the eye in, encouraging you to trace the patterns with your gaze. It was peculiar, because she’d seen him vastly underdressed several times now, but there was something far more enthralling about the way the black hugged tight to his torso and his legs, the way it flared over his hips and his shoulders...

He cleared his throat, and she blinked, heat tickling at the base of her lekku when she realised she’d been caught out staring. He was adjusting the cuffs about his wrist, settling the half glove over the back of his hand, and he most _definitely_ had a smirk on his face.

The heat spread to her neck. “I apologise, Thexan,” she began, but he cut her off.

“No need to apologise,” he said, glancing over at her with a smug expression on his face. “I’m well aware of what I look like.”

And now the flush of embarrassment was joined by annoyance- _that_ was the egotistical haughtiness she’d come to expect when dealing with nobility and the pampered elite. It had to make an appearance at some point, so it was at least something if he’d recovered enough to reach that point.

She’d take that as a good thing, for now.

She offered him a bland smile instead. “It’s good to see your confidence returning,” she said. “You’re looking healthier.”

The smirk vanished instantly from his face, replaced by a thoroughly moody scowl. “I look like a trophy,” he said coldly. “Which, really, works well for you, doesn’t it?”

Ona’la closed her eyes, because it was easier than trying to deal with the look of accusation in his face. “You aren’t my trophy, Thexan,” she said quietly.

“And is that what you’re going to tell everyone when we arrive, or are you going to hold your tongue and let them say what they will, just like with Vitiate?”

She looked at him then, meeting his gaze and holding it, cold and stormy silver held firm against warm, rich purple. “I can only let my actions speak for me, can’t I?” she said.

It was the closest she could come to asking him to trust her.

* * *

He kept waiting to wake up, as if it was simply a bad dream.

While he’d been confined to the tiny medical room, with only Ona’la and a med droid for company, and sometimes not even that, it was somewhat manageable to convince himself that there was no greater galaxy beyond the door, or even beyond the ship. That- perhaps- they were alone in some bizarre afterlife, a place of limbo and nothingness, where he was left abandoned with no hope of rescue, with nothing to do but contemplate his numerous failures and the mistakes that had led him to this point in his life.

He couldn’t reasonably explain why his afterlife would include a woman he had never spoken to before, and in fact had come very close to killing on the battlefield, but the best answer he’d come to after much thought on the matter was that perhaps she represented his conscience, some deep buried part of him hidden beneath the violence and the blind loyalty to his father and brother that felt a need to confront the atrocities he had been party to over his life. He had no idea why it was her, and not someone like, say, his mother. Granted, he hadn’t seen her in nearly fifteen years, but she’d at least left more of a mark upon him than the Jedi Battlemaster.

In a perverse sort of way, he found it a relief that at least his company in the afterlife was intelligent and kind, and occasionally he found himself dwelling on the way she looked when she smiled. He could ask for worse companionship, if it truly were a nightmare or a place of limbo.

But the fateful words had come ringing through the ship- _attention all hands_ \- and it was so much harder to deny the world outside his room when it seemed determined to drag him out.

She’d come to him with his armour, all freshly mended and intact, and with the exception of his lightsaber she hadn’t withheld anything from him- Arcann’s ring sat heavy on his hand, the weight familiar and jarring at the same time. The ship had dropped out of hyperspace, the faint tremor as it switched from one dimension to the next only perceptible if you were concentrating on the shift.

She’d waited with him, attempting light conversation until his refusal to speak to her had finally worn down her resolve and she’d gone quiet as well.

He’d still tried to pretend it was nothing more than a bad dream, and that soon he was going to wake up. Safe in his bed, with Arcann in a nearby room, and his father not dead, and- and even if it left him feeling hollow, he had to believe it, because he didn’t know how to survive the alternative.

They came for the two of them not long after, the woman he judged at a glance to be the ship’s captain and at least a dozen soldiers in full gear in the hallway behind her. He still didn’t want to believe it was real, even as Ona’la spoke quietly with the captain and reluctantly took whatever it was that was handed to her.

“Would you give us a moment, Captain?” He knew she said it for his benefit, out of some misguided belief that she was sparing his pride or his feelings or something else ridiculous by insisting upon privacy.

“Two minutes,” the older woman said, fixing him with a glare that, had he been a lesser man, might have left him with trembling knees. As it was, he returned it with a flat stare of his own, watching until the door slid shut blocking the view between them.

“Thexan.”

He looked instead to Ona’la, who despite the miserable stress she was projecting, had apparently perfected the art of looking perfectly at ease. She did him the courtesy of looking him square in the eye, rather than cringing or hesitating, and in her hands he could see that she held a pair of stun cuffs.

“I thought you didn’t want me to be uncomfortable,” he said caustically, feeling a petty sort of enjoyment at throwing her words back at her.

She didn’t flinch at his words. “You know I cannot leave you unbound,” she said calmly, but she didn’t rush forward to force him into them either.

“You know they won’t do a great deal to contain me, if I really want to get free.”

“I know,” she said simply. “I choose to trust it won’t come to that.”

They stared at each other for a few agonizingly long moments, neither moving. “Your naive determination to believe in people will be your downfall,” he said flatly.

“Perhaps,” she said, her tongue darting out to her lower lip, as if she was nervous, “but I’ll place my faith where I believe it is most needed.” When she reached out for him, he didn’t resist her- let her bind him, cage him. Let her feel the full weight of her choices as he stood there passively. She was wearing gloves of soft leather, worn and well loved by the looks of them, and for a moment he resented the fact that he couldn’t feel her skin on his. How much more would it hurt her to have to make contact with him as she bound him?

She held his wrists close together with one hand, the cuffs securely wrapped around each forearm, and with her other hand she activated the charged field. There was a crackling hiss, and he felt the hair on his arm lift momentarily, stirred by the electric spark.

“I’m sorry, Thexan,” she said softly, holding both of his hands in hers. They had not been so close since the day she had tended to his arm, and for all that he didn’t want her- or anyone here, really- touching him, he found that he’d desperately missed the simplicity of physical contact. It made him feel alive again, real in a way the past two weeks had not, a quiet reminder that he was not alone in the universe, and that there was a world waiting for him beyond the confines of this room.

He glanced back up at her, from where he’d been staring at their joined hands, and found her watching him solemnly. She was close enough that he could see the flecks of deeper purple in the depths of her eyes, close enough that he could see the finer lines of the scars that wrapped around her neck from beneath her collar and up towards her mouth, close enough that he could see the faint irregularities between the two faded tattoos that passed for her eyebrows.

Close enough that he could see the sincerity in her face, and resent it immensely.

He closed off his heart. “It’s a little late for apologies at this point, don’t you think?”

“It’s never too late to make things right,” she said immediately, with an urgency that made him raise his eyebrows questioningly at her. She didn’t elaborate, however, and instead turned to guide him over to the door.

After that, things passed in somewhat of a blur; he should have been taking note of the weapons carried by the troopers escorting them, he should have been committing to memory the route they took through the ship towards the hangar bay, but he could barely concentrate. He had a moment of amusement for himself wondering if this was what Vaylin complained of so often, before he remembered that of course he was never going to see her again to ask her.

It was less daunting to stand in the hangar bay and stare at the glowing, seething leviathan that was the planet-city of Coruscant. He’d seen it in holos, of course, and they’d had agents aplenty providing them with up-to-the-minute intelligence on the inner workings of the Republic, but somehow... he couldn’t say what it was. He’d been expecting to feel furious, or maybe terrified to see it so close, knowing he was probably going to die there, but even that barely stung to think on. It was far more orange than he’d been expecting, the lights a sharper colour than the pale yellow and white of Zakuul.

He thought of standing by the windows in the Spire and staring down at the lights, and the homesickness hurt so badly that he clenched his hands into fists, the stun cuffs buzzing slightly against his wrists as his muscles moved.

Ona’la glanced at him, and he ignored her.

There were more troops standing by for their arrival, and there were dozens of Liberator-class starfighters across the open space being prepped for flight as well.

“Is an aerial escort really necessary?” he heard Ona’la say ahead of him, the first time she’d spoken since they’d left the med bay. The question wasn’t directed at him, but at the captain- who he had not been introduced to, he noticed, and he couldn’t quite tell if that was a deliberate snub or not.

“Saresh isn’t taking any chances,” the captain said, stopping by the open door of the shuttle and letting the first line of troopers board ahead of them. “Plus, you know what she’s like- she’s not gonna turn down a chance to make a grand spectacle of things. Aerial flyby is practically subdued by her standards.”

Thexan couldn’t help the smirk as he was nudged forward to climb the ramp up towards the waiting shuttle. As he passed Ona’la, he mouthed ‘ _a trophy_ ’ and he saw a flutter of something- grief, maybe? Or shame?- in her eyes before she was following close behind him into the shuttle.

When her hand touched the back of his elbow, as if she thought she was steadying him, he snapped back at her “I’m quite capable of walking under my own strength, _Jedi_ ,” and as one, a dozen troopers abruptly had their guns trained on him.

Their speed and the stench of their fear was quite impressive, really.

“Stand down,” Ona’la said sharply, her hand no longer on him as she turned to survey the soldiers on the shuttle with them. “He’s not a threat.”

He smirked again. “I could be,” he said, as mildly and calmly as if he was simply commenting on the weather.

Ona’la spun on him, a finger stabbing into his chest. “ _That_ is not helping anything,” she said, her eyes flashing dangerously.

“I have no desire to _help_ -”

“You don’t want to die, though,” she said, her voice dropping low as if the twenty other people in the cabin with them couldn’t hear her if she suddenly spoke quietly. Were it anyone else, he would have taken her words as a threat; with Ona’la, he had no idea. “Thexan- _please_.”

He stared at her for a long moment, aware of the dozen highly powered blaster rifles aimed directly at him- and at her, he realised, she’d put herself between him and at least a few of them- and finally he let out a slow breath through his nose.

She must have read his decision in his expression, because she relaxed too, her palm flat against his chest instead of stabbing accusingly. She couldn’t seem to help herself, always finding moments to touch him whether she realised it or not. “It’s alright,” she said to the room, turning back to the troopers and lifting her hands to show them the situation was resolved. “Stand down, please.”

“Everybody _sit_ down, too,” the captain said, slouching into a seat in the front row with far less decorum than would have been acceptable from a captain of Zakuul. “I’m not having you fall all over each other like drunk pups if or when we hit turbulence coming in.”

“I’ll stand,” Thexan said, because it wasn’t like he could let a chance to be vexing pass him by.

As predicted, he saw Ona’la start to roll her eyes before she caught herself, and went to open her mouth to scold him- but the captain pre-empted her.

There was a sharp bark of laughter from the front of the transport. “Son, I am far too old and have been through far too much bullshit to consider your tantrum to be anything above cheap bravado- sit the fuck down and keep your mouth shut so the rest of us can be spared your kriffin’ nonsense.”

The smirk vanished from Thexan’s face immediately at the reprimand, something that he definitely didn’t want to call embarrassment taking it’s place within him. If that wasn’t bad enough, Ona’la bit her lip to stop herself from laughing, and it wasn’t like he was going to miss her laughing at his humiliation when she was standing so close.

He scowled at her, shouldering his way past her far more roughly than was necessary, and slumped down into a seat. The blaster rifles followed him the entire time, and didn’t go back to a rest position until Ona’la spoke sharply to the escort for a third time.

She sat in the seat across the aisle from him, and he ignored her.

“No idea how you put up with his royal bratness,” the captain called back over her shoulder, and Thexan stiffened at the insult.

He felt a surge of irritation- and then blinked because it _hadn’t_ come from him. He glanced sideways towards Ona’la, but her face was as calm and composed as always. If she noticed him looking at her, she certainly didn’t acknowledge him, but after a moment, the irritation eased away.

A few short minutes later, the doors to the shuttle were closed, and the interior was pressurized for the short sojourn down to the surface.

Any moment now, he’d wake up. Surely.

By the time they landed, he was half convinced he was watching the whole affair from afar, as if it was some terrible holodrama he was watching from the safety and security of his rooms while it happened to someone else, and he was having trouble keeping himself focussed on the moment. When they prodded him to stand, he went numbly, because what did it matter? It was happening to someone else, after all.

The seals on the doors disengaged, and-

And stars above- the _noise_.

The shuttle wasn’t exactly soundproof, but it blocked enough of the noise of the assembled crowd that it had only been a dull roar over the sound of the engines. Once the door was open, and the people realised the moment was _here_ , the sound was amplified a thousandfold, the screams of excitement shrill and deafening.

With a sickening, horrifying finality, he knew at last that he wasn’t going to wake up.

Ona’la went to the door first, and she didn’t even look back at him- with shoulders straight and her chin high, she stepped down onto the ramp and into the sunshine, and the noise outside _exploded_. He even saw one of the troopers by the door wince, turning his face ever so slightly away, as if that would shield him from the cacophony.

Alright, at least he could take pleasure in small amusements- that was funny.

But before he had time to savour it, someone was prodding him none too firmly in the back with the butt of a blaster rifle, and he snarled over his shoulder as they shoved him forward. He tried not to blink in the sunlight, not wanting to appear weak in any manner whatsoever, but the sight that greeted him almost made him stumble on the ramp of the shuttle anyway.

He’d seen the Senate building in great detail in his lessons, and had a vague concept of the layout stored away in the back of his head. He knew the large plazas were used for public events in theory, but that hadn’t been the case in recent memory, and what images he had seen didn’t do the area justice. It was hardly breathtaking, although the statues of the Republic founders were certainly impressive, but rather the sheer scale of the place dwarfed anything he’d seen before. Zakuul had public plazas, elegantly designed and immaculately maintained, but he doubted even his own citizens could put on a display like this.

There had to be tens of thousands of people crammed into the various arms of the plaza, if not over a hundred thousand- a small drop in the ocean that was the more than a trillion souls who called Coruscant home, to be sure, but in such a confined space? It was still impressive. There were banners and posters in a riot of colours- although the white and blue of the Republic seemed to prevail most commonly- and there were lights flashing in a rainbow of colours from droids and flares and decorative fireworks which were surely being set off illegally. He couldn’t hear anything distinctly over the roar of the masses, so he had no idea if someone had announced them, or if someone was giving speeches, or if there was music playing. For all he knew, someone could have been calling for his death at that very moment, and he wouldn’t have had a clue about it.

Ona’la stood near to the edge of the platform, one hand behind her back at rest while the other was raised above her head as she waved to the crowd; the smile on her face seemed genuine, but he’d come to terms with the fact that she was exceptionally skilled at masking her true emotions for the sake of appearances.

The rest of the troopers in his escort all marched off the ship and fell into place around him, and he rolled his eyes at the pomp and pomposity of it all; some distance away, on another dais, there was a collection of figures clearly waiting for them, and as he glanced around to take in more of the scene, he saw holocameras flitting over the crowd and the stages, and the giant projection screens set up at regular intervals along the plazas. One of them chose that precise moment to zoom in close on his face, and he scowled in annoyance as his face appeared on two dozen giant screens around the Senate building.

“Can we get this over and done with, already?” he snapped, not even sure why he bothered voicing his frustration aloud; even if anyone could hear him, no one was going to indulge the whims of the most wanted man in the Republic.

There were Senate Guards around the platform too, their blue armour and feathered helms standing out starkly against the white and pale blue of the far less impressive escort surrounding Thexan. One of them, a captain by the cut of his robes, stepped up beside Ona’la, gesturing in the direction of the other dais- there was a clear path between them, carpeted and cordoned off, protected at intervals by yet more of the Senate Guard. His meaning was clear, even if Thexan couldn’t hear what he said to Ona’la.

When she turned to smile at him, her hand resting briefly on his forearm in a gesture he recognised as her way of expressing thanks, his stomach soured further as he watched them.

Someone prodded him firmly in the back again with a rifle butt, clearly anticipating the moment when Ona’la would lead them all towards the other dais.

... except that she wasn’t moving.

At the edge of the platform, Ona’la had gone deathly still, her head cocked to the side as if she was listening intently- although the chances of her being able to hear anything distinctly in the tumultuous roar of the crowd was laughable. He could see the honour guard glancing at one another as they waited to see what she was doing; off to the side, he could see one of them lift a hand to their ear, and over the din he heard them answer “no sir, she’s not said a word.”

So not even their superiors knew what she was doing- that was intriguing.

The captain of the Senate Guard took a step towards her again, as if to discreetly enquire after her hesitation, when she suddenly _transformed_. There was no other word for it- one moment she was the woman he’d come to know these last few weeks, quiet and shy and unassuming, and then in the space of a heartbeat that woman was gone. In her place was the warrior he had faced on Eriadu, the Battlemaster, and the difference between them was monumental.

She straightened, the soft edges of her now all sharp angles, and she moved faster than most normal mortals could follow with any detail- not a problem for him- as she launched herself away from the edge of the platform and back towards-

-him?

She was landing in front of him before he had time to finish that thought, between one breath and the other, and he heard the sizzling snarl of a lightsaber; for a moment, he thought he was dead, that this was how he was destined to die. Her kindness and her softness had only ever been a bluff, and she’d lured him back here to the centre of the Republic only to slaughter him for her adoring crowds.

And then she was grabbing him and pushing him behind her, and there was a shearing blaze of gold as she spun and blocked two laser bolts that came in quick succession- both of which would have struck him square in the forehead had she been even a fraction of a second slower in reaching him.

He could hear panicked screaming, and the energy of the crowd had changed instantly from giddy joy to hysterical terror, and somewhere around him he could hear someone shouting orders and the words _sniper_ and _assassin_ and somehow none of that seemed to sink in because of the overwhelming fact that Ona’la had thrown herself in front of an assassin’s strike to defend him _using his own lightsaber_.

“North-west corner, there’s a speeder breaking off from traffic.” Her voice was authoritative, uncompromising. The voice of a woman who expected to be heard and obeyed without question. This was the woman who could stand and defy Vitiate twice over without faltering.

_She’d saved him._

“ _Thexan_.” She said his name like she’d said it several times already, and when he felt her palm against his cheek he jerked in surprise. “Are you alright?”

He stared. And stared. She’d turned away from her own welcoming parade to put herself between him and a killer. She was talking to him, _touching him_ , in front of a hundred thousand people or more.

“Thexan?” _She’d used his lightsaber_. “Can you hear me? Are you alright?”

“I don’t know,” he said hoarsely, because at least that was the truth.

And he owed her the truth.


	11. Chapter 11

Ona’la didn’t appreciate being lied to.

She wasn’t fond of being made out to be some sort of bloodied war hero at the best of times, but she understood the reasoning behind it. Public morale went a long way towards strengthening the war effort, and she knew that the image of her as the indomitable, unflinching warrior standing at the foot of a mountain of Sith bodies meant a lot to the people struggling under occupation, or fighting on the front lines. She hated it- she hated the giant holos she saw of herself, posed regally with her lightsaber drawn and her face impassive. She hated the posters she saw on numerous Republic worlds, words of triumphant patriotism plastered across her face. She hated the way young children would run up to her in the street squealing in excitement, wanting to hear the very goriest details of her confrontation with Vitiate, in that macabre fascination with violence that young children seemed to have.

She could understand the necessity of something, even if it personally upset her, so she wasn’t at all impressed by the knowledge that she was being deliberately kept in the dark when she liked to consider herself fairly reasonable when it came to difficult topics.

What upset her even more was knowing that there had to be multiple people working to keep her out of the loop.

She’d not expected a great deal of support from Supreme Chancellor Saresh- their viewpoints were far too often opposing or at the very least counter-productive for her to expect Saresh to immediately fall into her camp without thorough debate beforehand. She’d hoped that Satele might be willing to stand with her, but after the last two days of being mysteriously needed urgently for numerous Jedi duties that had occupied her until late into the night, she could tell she was being deliberately distracted and preoccupied with inanities. Kira had not been summoned back to Coruscant for her return, and the one time she’d managed to reach Theron on his holo, he’d been as direct as possible without openly stating that their conversation was being monitored and it wasn’t safe to talk.

Anyone from amongst the Council or upper ranks of the Order who she might have considered an ally was mysteriously absent from Coruscant altogether, in fact. Whether on Tython or Corellia or assigned to one of the fleets or off on any other one of the dozens of active combat zones across the galaxy, no one but Satele was present for her to turn to. That was not to say that those present were antagonistic to her at all, but there were certainly those who had _opinions_ on her professional involvement with numerous Sith and her willingness to work with the Empire.

But she’d been on Coruscant for two days now, and been blocked at every turn by even the most well-meaning acquaintances, and denied the opportunity to see that Thexan was being treated well.

She was frustrated beyond belief, and she was done with waiting to see if she was allowed permission to be involved with her own mission.

She’d dressed more for her own comfort than anything else- Saresh would take her Jedi battle robes to be a sign of aggression, and the occasion was not significant enough to warrant some of her fancier apparel. Now, if she’d been about to storm into a session of the _Senate_ , she might have had a more difficult choice on her hands, deciding whether to go in as a warrior or whether to go with more delicately feminine apparel in the knowledge any number of Senators would underestimate her based purely on the fact that she was a female identifying twi’lek in pastel silks. Saresh wouldn’t be nearly so easy to manipulate, and Ona’la respected her too much to want to try.

Respecting her didn’t necessarily mean that she _liked_ her very much at the moment, though.

And respecting her didn’t mean she wasn’t going to underestimate her.

She dressed instead in a soft silk tunic that came to mid thigh, the pastel purple colour bringing out pinker tones in her blue skin. She’d worn it before for more diplomatic engagements, because while it wasn’t decadent by any means, it certainly offered her an air of elegance that the more ragged edges of her battle robes tended to skip over. The neckline was high- like she preferred-, and every hem was adorned with delicate golden embroidery; the collar wasn’t quite enough to cover her scarring, so to compensate she wore a gauzy silken scarf, artfully draped around her neck and then carefully hooked in between her lekku and up underneath the metal adornment on her headpiece, to keep it in place.

The scarf had been a gift from an Alderaanian nobleman some years ago, in what she was quite certain was a courting gift but that she’d elected to view as thanks for her attempts at diplomatic intervention during the civil war. She matched it with a heavy golden necklace- also a gift, this time from a very forward Ondernian Senator, who had been far more persistent in her interest- and thick golden cuffs around her wrists, easily visible beneath the sheer fabric of her sleeves. The thick band of white leather and gold clasps around her waist was more of a cinch than a belt, and she was more discreet about the fact that it had been a gift from the former-Sith Lord Praven, as thanks to her for her help in his defection to the Jedi. That one caused her the least guilt to wear, but it would probably cause the greatest scandal were the truth of it to come out.

She finished off the outfit with her stark white linen pants and her regular boots- they’d been repaired and polished only days ago, after all, and they were comfortable. She didn’t want to have to trek all the way across the Senate Plaza wearing dainty slippers, only for them to be filthy before she even reached the door.

And the most delightful part of being somewhere that vaguely qualified as home once more meant that she had access to her preferred brands of cosmetics, goddess be praised. She’d almost whimpered in relief at the delivery that had arrived at her- generously donated- apartment a few minutes from the Senate tower, not at all ashamed of how overjoyed she’d been to see a foundation powder that _actually matched_ her skin tone, and the palettes of purple and gold that she adored most of all.

That, more than anything, made her feel like her old self again.

Suitably adorned- and, with no weapon of her own to rely upon for now, Thexan’s lightsaber strapped to her hip- she called for a speeder taxi to collect her, and made her way over to the Senate Tower.

She and Saresh were going to have a chat, whether the Chancellor wanted to see her or not.

* * *

Thexan didn’t appreciate being ignored.

He was beginning to wonder whether it was a standard Republic tactic, given that Ona’la had so easily left him to rot for almost the entirety of their journey. Perhaps they assumed that the immense boredom would be enough to break him without them lifting a finger against him, leaving him to sit and stew and panic about an eternal stream of ‘ _what-if_ ’ scenarios that grew increasingly more ridiculous with each passing hour.

As if he hadn’t had extensive training in dealing with imprisonment, with particular emphasis on enduring lengthy periods in isolation cells. It was laughable that they thought a measly few days in a relatively comfortable cell would be enough to unsettle him. There was an actual _bed_ , for crying out loud, even if it was simply a solid block embedded in the floor to stop him from ripping it up in a frenzied Force attack. Granted, with the transparent electric screen over the door, he had nothing in the way of privacy when it came to using the minimalistic ablutions, but in terms of deprivation tactics, it was sorely lacking.

He could easily outlast them, whatever other tricks they thought to employ against him.

It was easy enough to pass the time in meditation or in simple exercise routines to try and claw back some of his strength and fitness. Occasionally he pushed himself too far, and trying to hide his exhaustion or his pain from the guards outside his cell was not a comfortable experience by any means. His stomach _burned_ sometimes, enough to leave him in a cold sweat and trembling, and trying to pretend that nothing was amiss when all he wanted was to snarl at the guards until someone fetched him a course of pain-killers.

He spent a lot of his time alone in the cell dwelling on Arcann, and the distance between them. Not being able to sense him was... he didn’t want to say it was traumatizing, but it was ruthlessly unsettling. It was like a gaping hole in his chest, an emptiness where something should have been but now there was only hollow longing.

All he had to remember him by where those last painful moments, when he’d assumed he was dying- the violent, towering rage and the horrifying abyss at his feet, hate and loathing and darkness all roiling together as one. The fear and the grief and the panic when he realised his lightsaber had actually sliced through his brother’s armour, the dark wave of hysterical grief as he’d rushed to his side. And as he’d faded, as he’d slipped away into the wash of pain and emptiness that he’d assumed was death, he’d felt the tiny flicker of guilt-ridden hope, when their father had acknowledged him.

He was glad at least, that Arcann had had that in the end. It was the only thing he’d ever wanted for him- to be safe, to be whole. He’d failed at protecting him from his own ambitions to begin with, when he’d lost his arm on Korriban. He was glad to have that kernel of joy to hold onto in his memories, that brief moment when Arcann’s hope had outweighed his grief.

And if their father truly was gone... well. The only person who was a greater danger to Arcann’s safety than Arcann himself had been their father.

His brother was safe. Just... not within Thexan’s reach any longer.

He had hoped that with time and adequate contemplation he would be able to determine who had placed him in the tank Ona’la had saved him from, but so far he had nothing. Arcann, if he thought there was a chance to save him, would have done it in a heartbeat, but it would have been a great and terrible drama, with no chance of them hiding it from the public. Their father had no reason to grieve for him terribly, given the cold indifference he had shown them even in the moments before what he’d thought at the time to be his death. He might have been responsible, if he determined him more useful alive than dead, but... it was a very big maybe.

One of the knights, perhaps, sent to retrieve his body and surprised to find him clinging to life? One of the scions, convinced he yet had a destiny to fulfill? _Vaylin_ , cataclysmically angry and gripped with teenage zeal and grief?

Outside of his cell, he could hear voices approaching from down the hallway. He didn’t stir from his meditations, because he’d be damned if he let them think he was desperate for interaction or for the vague possibility of walking free of his cell even for a short time. The two guards in their ridiculous blue armour stood to attention, and he fought back the urge to roll his eyes at the pompous feathered helms they wore. Utterly impractical and completely unthreatening, it made them look like startled hens in his opinion.

He felt the presence of another Force user, unfamiliar to him, and he immediately focused on maintaining the walls around himself; he wouldn’t let this hostile Jedi poke around in his head without a fight.

Two individuals came to a stop before his cell- he could sense them, long before he opened his eyes, but he wasn’t in any rush to stand and address them. They made no attempt to engage with him, no hushed conversation beyond the electric force field. They just stood there, staring in at him, as if he was a beast in a zoo.

He wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of acknowledging them, however, so he maintained his meditations and ignored them.

“There’s no point in pretending you don’t know we’re here.” The speaker was female, her voice soft and deep. She was the Force user of the two of them, the Jedi. “Childishly ignoring us will achieve you nothing.”

Just for that, he felt even more determined than ever to be as childishly unhelpful as possible. He kept his eyes closed, and continued trying to meditate- right up until a presence brushed rather forcefully against his own, accompanied by the compulsion to stand and greet them.

“You are _not_ subtle,” he said with a snarl, his hands closing into fists where they rested on his thighs.

“You felt that?”

“I’ve felt rockslides with more subtlety than that. That was the most graceless bludgeoning I’ve encountered in years.”

There was a chuckle from beyond the door, as if his descriptions amused the other stranger. “Yeah, he’s got an attitude that’d put a Thul to shame, if he’s an imposter he’s a great actor.”

“He’s not an imposter,” the Jedi said. “A Force user is not susceptible to powers of persuasion and compulsion, but there are not many that would be capable of sensing my skills regardless.”

_An akk dog with a blunt stick would be more skillful than that._

“So it sounds to me like we’re definitely in need of a good chat.” Thexan gritted his teeth, because it seemed inevitable that they were going to drag him out for interrogation after all. “I imagine you’re keen to stretch your legs for a bit, get out of that cramped space.”

If it was utterly unavoidable, then he’d at least do it on his terms. He opened his eyes finally, and climbed slowly to his feet, making his way over to the door and staring out at the two of them. He looked from one to the other, eyes flicking over their features. “Supreme Commander Jace Malcolm,” he said, impressed at least that the Commander did not look startled at him using his name. He looked to the Jedi woman, who watched him coolly. “And Master Kylaena Dawnstar.”

“Impressive talent there,” Commander Malcolm, his beefy arms crossed over his equally large torso. “Some sort of Force mind reading trick?”

How the Republic had thought themselves to be an equal opponent to Zakuul was utterly beyond him. “You are wearing your stripes of office,” he said caustically, as if he thought the conversation beneath him. Which, to be fair, he did. “And Master Dawnstar has the patch of the Rift Alliance on her sleeve.”

He didn’t add ‘ _and our intelligence agency had extensively detailed files on both of you, and you were both listed on our contain-and-capture list_ ’.

“So you wanted to chat? Or should I just continue to state the painfully obvious at you for the time being?”

* * *

“Master Jedi, ma’am, I can’t allow you to go in there.”

Ona’la smiled warmly at the Senate Guard who was marching along rather helplessly at her side, unsure whether or not he should attempt to restrain her. “It’s absolutely fine,” she said soothingly, only injecting the teensiest little edge of suggestion to her voice. “It’s no trouble at all.”

“Master Ona’la, the Chancellor is in extremely delicate negotiations this morning-”

“It’s fine, I’ll only be a moment,” she said, touching his arm briefly in a comforting gesture, not even breaking her stride.

“Please, ma’am, I must ask-”

He was determined, she’d give him that; he’d brushed off her compulsion like it was nothing. “If the Chancellor objects, I’ll be sure to make sure she knows it was my doing,” she said, smiling brightly at him as she placed her hand on the door to the Supreme Chancellor’s office.

“Master Jedi-”

“It’s fine, really it is.” She didn’t give him another chance to interrupt her, pushing open the door and marching inside with her head held high. The conversation within stuttered almost violently to a halt, and there was a murmur of displeasure and surprise as a dozen faces turned towards her.

And none of them looked more angry at her appearance than Saresh.

“Master Ona’la, what is the meaning of this? How _dare_ you force your way into my office without any regard for common decency or political procedure.”

She recognised most of the faces assembled, if not all of them- there was Marcus Trant, the director of the SIS, and General Garza, responsible for most of their elite black ops units. Seated beside Saresh was Master Asmi Adhi, the Barsen’thor and Jedi attache to the Senate; she didn’t look as sickly as she had the last time Ona’la had seen her, which she hoped for her sake meant that some of the treatments seeking to slow the encroaching weakness she’d suffered since facing Lord Vivicar were finally taking effect.

There were a few Senators she recognised by sight if not by name, including Duke Organa, and a few more individuals she assumed to be civic leaders of a sort- that gentleman towards the back of the room she realised was the doctor that Archiban had been so violently unimpressed with several years earlier, his old colleague who had become Head of the Republic Health Administration.

So Saresh was meeting with politicians, soldiers, administrators and Jedi- such an eclectic mix of individuals could only mean a few things, and Ona’la was quite willing to put money on only one of them being true. Namely, that Saresh was assembling her own independent task force outside of the Senate’s control or gaze, to make preparations for and advise in the event of war with Zakuul.

Well then. The time for subtlety had clearly passed quite some time ago.

She clasped her hands before her, feet braced comfortably as she smiled mildly at Saresh across the table. “My apologies, Chancellor- please believe me that, under normal circumstances, I would never dream of interrupting you in such a fashion.”

General Garza snorted in amusement, something that caused Saresh to throw a disgruntled look in her direction; she hadn’t been under the impression that the two women got along very well, so their collaboration was peculiar. “Of course you wouldn’t,” Saresh said, her words dripping with disbelief. She took a deep heaving breath, as if sighing in resignation, and sat forward in her chair. “Pray tell, Master Jedi, what could possibly have warranted you barging into my office and demanding my attention?”

If Saresh wanted to be blunt to the point of rudeness, then Ona’la would match her- politely, of course.

She kept the smile in place as she said “Was the sniper set in place by the Republic?”

A round of uncomfortable noises rippled over the room, people shifting in their chairs at the spectacle of the most powerful Jedi short of the Grandmaster herself openly accusing the Supreme Chancellor of setting in place an assassination attempt.

Saresh, for her part, didn’t even bat an eyelash. “I can see why you might have drawn such an assumption, Master Jedi,” she said bluntly. “And I commend you for your courage, confronting me in such a fashion. Political corruption is and always has been an insidious beast to defeat, and one of the cornerstones of my approach to government.”

Her words did nothing to settle the discomfort of the room, quite a few people glaring very pointedly at the walls or the window in an attempt to not been drawn into the confrontation.

“That’s very deliberately not an answer to my question, Chancellor.”

“The sniper was not put in place by the Republic,” Saresh said, resting her elbows on the table and clasping her hands together. “Our investigations are still ongoing, but we believe the attacker to have ties to Zakuul. Does that ease your suspicions, Battlemaster?”

Not in the slightest. “And what lead you to that conclusion?”

Saresh lifted a delicately tattooed brow at her. “The fact that the assailant was armed and armoured with materials unfamiliar to our specialists, and they elected to take their own life rather than submit to questioning.”

“An assassin sent by Zakuul would be unlikely to be wearing or carrying anything that could tie them to their employer,” Ona’la countered, looking very pointedly at Director Trant for a moment, who very deliberately spent the time studying his nails instead.

“Zakuul has nothing to hide when it comes to dealing with Prince Thexan,” Saresh said smoothly, as if she wasn’t at all unsettled by Ona’la’s observation. “You’ve told Grandmaster Shan that he was labelled a traitor for attempting to murder his father, yet Zakuul has stated that he died on the battlefield many months ago.”

Ona’la blinked, running the words through her head. “That cannot be correct,” she said, her brain frantically turning over every conversation she’d had with Thexan these past few weeks. “The prince confessed to me-”

“And you reported that you found his confession to be false,” Saresh said. “Which leaves us with a hostile empire claiming we have arrested an imposter, strictly for the purpose of mocking them during their period of grief.”

That wasn’t right. She _knew_ that wasn’t right, with everything in her she could _feel_ it- she knew that Thexan had lied about trying to kill his father, and she absolutely knew that he was not a pretender. There was no question about it.

“With all due respect, Chancellor, that response from Zakuul is nothing more than a hastily concocted lie to undermine my credibility and to cast doubt on any information we might be able to coax from his Highness.”

“That’s a fine opinion to hold, Master Jedi, but it has no bearing on the situation from our perspective- Prince Thexan is a prisoner of the Galactic Republic and will be tried and sentenced in an appropriate time and manner.”

Ona’la felt her lekku prickle with unease. “What exactly does that mean?”

“That’s none of your concern, Master Ona’la, given that your role in this affair has come to a close.”

It was the hardest fight of her life to keep a straight, calm face. “I beg to differ, Chancellor,” she said, proud of herself that there wasn’t even a hint of anger in her voice.

“I _beg_ your pardon?”

Ona’la straightened ever so slightly, drawing on the strength she used as Battlemaster- the same strength that had seen her defend the younger children in the mines from the sadistic foremen, the same strength that had seen her spill blood to protect the younglings in the attack on the Jedi Temple, the same strength that had helped her lock herself away from Vitiate’s overwhelming darkness for six months or more.

It was noticeable enough that Master Adhi cast her a sharp glance from where she sat at Saresh’s right hand, not quite a warning but certainly a look that expressed a need for caution.

“I’m afraid I’m not comfortable with your approach to this situation, Chancellor,” Ona’la said smoothly, choosing not to take the Barsen’thor’s caution to heart.

Something changed in Saresh’s expression, a flicker of anger in her eyes. “By all means, Battlemaster, what is it that confuses you and needs clarification? I’d hate to think my policies weren’t accessible to my constituents.”

It was a subtle jab, in a way, and Ona’la didn’t have time for it. “No, Chancellor, you made your position perfectly clear to me some time ago- I’m simply giving you the courtesy of making _my_ position just as clear.”

Saresh’s smile was thin as she looked at her over her clasped hands. “Is that a threat, Battlemaster?” she asked mildly, and the assembled diplomats and military officials all shifted uncomfortably at the rising tension in the room.

“I wouldn’t dream of threatening you, Chancellor,” Ona’la said. “I have nothing but the utmost respect for yourself and your office. But for the sake of transparency, and to avoid confusion, I’m not going to hide my intentions or attempt to undermine your authority in any way- I’m telling you right now that I will oppose any attempts at unlawful imprisonment, and under no circumstances will I allow the Republic to pursue the death penalty for Prince Thexan.”

“You are not in any position to _allow_ the Republic to do anything, Battlemaster,” Saresh said flatly, her tone decidedly less friendly. “The governmental and judicial practices of the Galactic Republic are not susceptible to change merely on account of your _whims_.”

Ona’la didn’t smile; this wasn’t a situation that required her kindness and gentility. “I am well aware of the whimsical nature of the Republic’s laws, Chancellor,” she said, “given that, as a survivor of child slavery, I have had Senators defend their right to petition for slavery to be reinstituted right to my face. The laws you uphold are far from neutral, and they only uphold democracy so far as it suits the men and women writing the legislation.”

Saresh’s face was more ominous than a thundercloud. “If that will be all, Battlemaster, you are kindly invited to leave.”

“Thexan is a prisoner of war, and under the Republic Accords for Military Conduct in a time of open conflict-”

“That will be all, Battlemaster.”

“He is entitled to legal standing equivalent to that of any Republic citizen while facing trial-”

“That will be _all_ , Battlemaster.”

The two women stared at each other coldly, Saresh visually furious and Ona’la calm and cold and radiating hostility. Both of their lekku were ramrod stiff against their backs. “It will not be _all_ , Chancellor,” Ona’la said quietly. “I will not allow you to turn him into a political stunt.”

“He is no longer your responsibility, Master Jedi,” Saresh said caustically. “Now, if you won’t leave of your own volition, I will have the Senate Guard escort you from the premises- which will it be?”

* * *

“May I call you Thexan? Or are we strictly on a ‘ _your Highness_ ’ only basis?”

He stared across the table at them both, unresponsive; apparently neither Malcolm nor Dawnstar were surprised by such tactics, because neither of them even blinked at his silence. They hadn’t taken him far, just as he’d expected- once the Senate Guards had bound him securely with stun cuffs while Master Dawnstar supervised with an inscrutable expression, they’d led him down the hallway and into another cell that was scarcely bigger than the one he’d been occupying these last few days. Still in the bowels of the Senate Tower, in the holding rooms reserved for political prisoners, still easily at hand should they decide the time was right to trot him out for further public humiliation.

The table and chairs were all firmly attached to the floor, ostensibly to stop more physically able prisoners from resorting to using them as makeshift weapons. He’d stared sullenly while the guards had rather forcefully seated him in the single chair on the far side of the table, cuffing his legs in place against the frame and tethering the stun cuffs around his wrists to an electro-cable jutting out from the table’s surface.

He wanted to laugh at the ridiculously paranoid measures they were going to in order to keep him contained, but he had to admit they were probably warranted. If he’d set his mind to it, he probably could’ve escaped, with some careful thought and concentration, and if he neutralized Master Dawnstar as a first priority...

Ona’la had never come to see him armed, or under excessive guard. She’d even removed his stun cuffs out of concern for his comfort, before he’d even woken for her to gauge what sort of threat he posed to her.

“No objections to Thexan then?” Malcolm had apparently taken his extended silence as consent, and he rubbed his hands together, as if pleased. “Fantastic, let’s settle in and have a chat then.”

Thexan stared, his face impassive.

“So things aren’t looking so great for you right now, bit of an understatement, but it doesn’t have to be all doom and gloom and nastiness. You have the power to make things better for yourself- and a whole lot of other people in the process, too. All you need to do is cooperate, and answer a few questions for us.”

Apparently this was an agreed upon cue in their little script, because Dawnstar took over. “We need you to give us the exact galactic coordinates for Zakuul,” she said, her voice clipped but calm. “We also require a breakdown of Zakuul’s military capabilities and planetary defenses, including current field strength. Additionally, we need any and all information you can provide on the technological nature of your fleet, including schematics, weapons capabilities and hyperspace propulsion technology.”

He didn’t speak, but he did glance slowly in her direction, giving her the most witheringly disdainful look he could muster.

Even that wasn’t enough to dissuade them- Commander Malcolm actually had the audacity to _laugh_ at him. “Didn’t think you’d come so easy,” he said wryly, “but you can’t blame us for trying.”

He could blame them for a great many things, but he wasn’t exactly going to tell them that.

“You are in a very poor position currently, your Highness,” Master Dawnstar said, her hands clasped before her on the table; he didn’t know whether she was mimicking his body language deliberately, matching the way his hands were forcibly bound before him, but he didn’t appreciate the gesture. “It is in your best interest to curry our favour, and offer us information in exchange for a more lenient sentence.”

It wasn’t like he held a single shred of regard for this farcical game they were pretending was a judicial system, so her offer held absolutely nothing of interest for him. After a few long moments of silence, where they waited for him to suddenly spill the contents of his heart and soul with eager abandon, Dawnstar glanced sideways at Malcolm, and he nodded his head- just barely- in assent.

She reached for something below the table, out of his line of sight, and a moment later placed a holo device on the surface between them. “When the Battlemaster first made contact with Grandmaster Shan several weeks ago, she told us you’d attempted to assassinate your father, and been declared a traitor to Zakuul. You must have been quite relieved at the news of his death, then.”

Knowing the subject was bound to arise eventually didn’t make it any easier to hear- what sort of barbarian did they think he was, _pleased_ at his father’s death? He was less subtle with his look of contempt this time, stopping short of rolling his eyes only with extreme effort.

“Is that a no, then?”

“It’s funny,” Malcolm said, drumming his fingers on the table in a rolling tempo, “but the Battlemaster- Master Ona’la, I should say-, she seemed fairly adamant about the events that led you to that kolto tank, swore black and blue about it in fact. And the thing is, she’s got this bad habit of trusting people, even people who don’t deserve her trust-”

“People like prominent Sith lords with secret knowledge of Zakuul, or enemy combatants under her protection,” Master Dawnstar said more pointedly, staring at him as if she was daring him to contradict her.

He wasn’t particularly interested in rising to her bait, so he returned her stare flatly. He ignored the sharp and sudden urge to sneer at them for underestimating the Battlemaster.

“The thing is,” Commander Malcolm continued, glancing briefly at the Jedi woman in what read as a warning, “I can’t imagine the Battlemaster is going to be all that thrilled when she learns you lied to her.”

Thexan’s gaze flicked back to the Commander, assessing; the truth of what had happened in his father’s throne room had been sure to come to light eventually, after all. It must have suited someone- his father? Arcann, maybe?- to fabricate a different story in the short term, but it would have been impossible to hide forever. He was impressed at the Republic’s intelligence gathering capabilities, at the very least.

And there was a brief flicker of guilt, and shame, wondering exactly what Ona’la would think of the fact that he’d lied to her.

“So, is there a reason that Zakuul is claiming you died months ago during the preliminary invasion, going so far as to throw you an elaborate and very public state funeral a month or so ago?”

Thexan blinked, running the words through his head. No, he hadn’t misheard, he’d definitely heard the Supreme Military Commander of the Galactic Republic tell him he’d been declared dead on the battlefield, and been mourned with honours at home.

“Your feelings betray you, your Highness,” Master Dawnstar said calmly. “This revelation surprises you.”

He scowled at her, and held his tongue; he wouldn’t succumb to so obvious a lure.

Commander Malcolm nodded again when she glanced at him, and she reached forward and activated the holo device. A small image appeared above it, poor quality, but most definitely a picture of-

- _home_. It hit him harder than he’d been hoping, a pang of longing so fierce that his chest ached from the need of it all.

The image had no sound, but was very definitely footage of what appeared to be his own funeral, just as they’d claimed. The camera jumped around from point to point, scanning over the crowd of mourners in one moment and then back to the podium in the next- his father was speaking, his lips moving without sound, and it occurred to him in a bizarre moment of clarity that his father was well and truly dead. He wasn’t ever going to see him again- this grainy vid was possibly the last footage of Valkorion in the days before his own death.

Was he speaking words of praise and grief? Was he mourning him as a father mourned for a son, or was he only thinking of lost assets, lost potential? Had he even known he was still alive, or had his father died thinking to join him in death?

Was there anything in him that had ever been Valkorion, mortal man and father, or had it only ever been a lie spoken like sugar-sweet poison by Vitiate, just as Ona’la claimed?

“So,” Commander Malcolm said, and a flicker of something darker and uglier flashed through his eyes before he covered it, “any idea why your dear old father, _the Sith Emperor_ , would be so interested in making a big show about you being dead?”

 _Ah_. He recalled from the files on Malcolm that he had an unreasonable hatred of the sith that bordered on fanaticism on occasion. He’d done well to contain himself so far, if they had knowledge of Ona’la’s suspicions about his father- some of the reports made it seem as if Malcolm was nothing more than a rabid animal frothing with rage when confronted with a sith.

Not that he was a sith.

Thexan met his gaze, staring flatly. “I’d ask him,” he said mildly, “if he wasn’t _dead_.”

“They said the same thing about you,” Master Dawnstar said pointedly. “And it would hardly be the first time that Vitiate has endured past-”

“ _Valkorion_ ,” Thexan snapped, gritting his teeth in frustration.

“I beg your pardon, your Highness, but has your father _Valkorion_ made a habit of sustaining himself after a moral blow? If not, then we are currently discussing _Vitiate_ , who definitely has made a habit of sidestepping death, and was very likely either masquerading as your father or in possession of his body.”

It was cruelly blunt, and he liked to think he did a decent effort of keeping himself from flinching; for all that the revelation had hurt her just as badly as it had hurt him, Ona’la had never once spoken down to him out of cruelty when they'd skirted around it in the days after.

He turned to look at Master Dawnstar, taking in the intricate designs on her expensive armour and her robes, the jewelled circlet she wore across her brow, the plain gold band she discreetly wore on her left hand. She was a woman of great influence and power, highly respected by her Jedi peers and by the Senate for her diplomatic work with the Rift Alliance, and for her efforts in exposing the Children of the Emperor, further empowered across diplomatic and military spheres by her quiet marriage to the President of Balmorra- all of this he knew from memory.

There was something more he knew, however.

“You were the strongest contender for the role of Battlemaster after Ona’la, were you not?” he asked.

He was ruthlessly pleased to see his question catch her off guard, though she hid her surprise and alarm with ease after a moment. “I was, yes,” she said smoothly. “I do not dispute the Grandmaster’s decision to appoint Master Ona’la, though- she is well deserving, and has lived up to the title admirably. I do not understand what that has to do with our current topic of conversation?”

He smiled coldly at her. “It doesn’t,” he said simply. “I’m just glad she got it instead of you.”

If they thought they were getting anything useful out of him, they were sorely mistaken.

* * *

The sound of the sniper’s shots were swallowed up by the immense pandemonium of the crowd, but the noise wasn’t particularly of interest to him- what was of interest was the man standing on the podium in stun cuffs, in strikingly familiar armour.

The footage froze as it reached the end of the file, and a long, ugly silence fell over the throne room. The face of the man who looked troublingly like Thexan was frozen, dismay and fear in his face as he stared at the woman standing in front of him. The woman who had just saved his life, and who Arcann distinctly recalled having defeated and captured many months ago.

But there she was, allegedly on Coruscant, along with a man who looked painfully like his dead brother, protecting him from a sniper’s bolt.

Arcann stared at the image, unmoving.

The door to the throne room opened, despite his express command not to be disturbed, and Vaylin sauntered in a moment later, the lights in the hall behind her making her shadow stretch large and ominous towards him.

“Are you still watching that rubbish?” she asked, her voice carrying across the empty space as she strolled down the carpeted aisle. “You can’t sit in here in the dark all day moping over a vid, you know. Empire to run, all that nonsense.”

Arcann leaned forward, resting his chin in his hands. “It looks like him,” he said, his voice a soft growl.

“Yeah, but he’s dead, isn’t he? We both know that, more than those fools ever could.”

“But-”

“Can you feel him?”

“What?”

“I said, can you feel him? You know, his presence and what not. Like you can feel me.”

Arcann glowered at her with his one good eye. “No,” he said sullenly.

“Well, I can’t either, and you actually saw him die-”

“ _Vaylin_ ,” he growled warningly.

“I’m just _saying_ ,” she snapped, apparently unimpressed with his interruption, “we both _know_ he’s dead, and neither of us can sense him, and we both know that’s the sort of trick the Republic would try. Make themselves look good and noble with their filthy war criminal, you know?”

Arcann breathed out slowly, no less tense even if her words were sensible and logical and the same thing he’d been trying to convince himself of for days now. “I know,” he said quietly.

“Well, good then. I’m still alive, you know? You’ve still got me. Let’s get out of the dark and stop moping and show them what we think of them mocking the memory of the Emperor’s brother, shall we?”

* * *

The footage froze as it reached the end of the file, and Tahrin frowned, staring at the image of Thexan on the screen before her as she rubbed wearily at her forehead.

After half a minute, she sighed and pressed a button on her chair, waiting until she heard the tell-tale static as the signal connected. “Pierce?”

“Sweetheart?” His voice crackled slightly. “What’s up, I’m just doing stock checking shit down in the cavern on the ammo dumps, need me to come back up?”

She chewed on her lip, staring at Thexan’s image. “Are you still in contact with your sister?”

There was a beat or two of silence as he processed her request, and then “Yeah, I should still have her holo codes lying around somewhere, last I heard she was still kicking around making a spectacle of herself with Clan Vizla or some shit. Why’d you ask?”

“I need to know if someone has been added to the Black List.”

“Someone you weren’t expecting?”

“I’m not sure. Ask her if the name Thexan is on there, or if she’s heard anything at all about an independent contract being offered for him.”

“Thexan? Like that broody Prince git?”

She smiled faintly, glad he couldn’t see her at that moment, with the ‘ _broody Prince git_ ’ on the screen in front of her. “The very same.”

She heard him snort in amusement. “Sure, I’ll ask her. I’ll let you know when I’ve found her.”

“My thanks,” she said, cutting short the call with another press of a button and reaching for her holo-comm instead, punching in a few separate codes and waiting for it to connect. With three quarters of the galaxy in between her and the other end of the call, it took a few long moments to click to active, and even then there were a few moments of crunching static and fuzzy visuals before she finally made out the vague shape of a woman on the display.

“Master!” The sound of Jaesa’s delight made her smile despite herself. “Oh goodness, how _are_ you? We were so worried when the invasion came so close to you all, and we heard from Malavai once and he said you were fine, but-”

“Jaesa,” she said firmly, but no less fondly. “I’m fine. We’re all fine. How is Ryloth?”

Even through the poor quality of the connection, she could see Jaesa visibly brighten. “Oh, it’s going so well! Vette is so _good_ , she’s such an excellent leader, and she’s been offered a place in the future government once they’ve taken back control of both capitals, and she’s worried she won’t be good enough but I’m just _so proud_ of her, and-”

“Most excellent,” Tahrin said, cutting her off before she began composing tearful sonatas about the achievements of her lover. “Please let me know if there’s anything we can do to assist- supplies or vocal support against the Hutts, so on and so on.”

“Of course, Master,” Jaesa said, far too used to her quirks to take offence at being cut off. “I sense, however, that there was a reason for your call- was there something on your mind?”

“You told me once that you spent some time training with the Battlemaster’s padawan, yes?”

“With Kira? Yes, we were both taken to the Temple quite late, we were both teenagers, so we had a lot of catching up to do. We often sat together in classes of much younger children. Why do you ask?”

Tahrin considered what she was about to do, glancing at Thexan’s image once again before committing to her course. “I need you to get in contact with her,” she said. “I need to speak to Master Ona’la.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keen-eyed observers will of course notice that I have the Barsen'thor and the Hero of the Rift as two different women, and that's deliberate- Asmi Adhi is my own togruta consular, and for the sake of story purposes, she was far too ill to continue with her duties after facing Lord Vivicar at the end of Act I, and remained on Coruscant for treatment to counter the debilitating effects of the shielding technique. Kylaena Dawnstar, my brother's human consular, stepped into the void her presence left and became the woman who unified the Rift Alliance and unmasked the Children of the Emperor. Both are, at this point, Jedi Council members, but Asmi is the Barsen'thor and Kylaena is the Hero of the Rift. 
> 
> Additionally, Ona'la charmingly forcing her way into the Chancellor's office is based entirely on Helen Mirren's character in R.E.D. being charmingly oblivious as she takes out a secret service agent. Not even gonna lie there.


	12. Chapter 12

Theron was late.

Normally, that wouldn’t have bothered her quite so much. Theron, in all the years she had known him, had never once seemed to run to any sort of punctual schedule at all, and she’d grown accustomed to him running late or changing their plans at the last minute. His work kept him busy at the most unpredictable times, far more than her duties ever did, so she never took it to heart when she was left dining alone after their visits fell through. 

Kira had always said she was far too understanding, and Archiban had- more than once- tried to charmingly suggest that he’d be available as a replacement dinner partner, because neither of them seemed to grasp the concept that she and Theron were _not_ romantically involved. Particularly in the weeks after she’d escaped from Vitiate’s fortified space station, when she’d needed someone _normal_ on hand who was never going to question her need to take a break from the crippling weight of her responsibilities and who would distract her from the nightmares for an afternoon, they’d been quite adamant that by repeatedly seeking out his company, she was clearly expressing romantic interest. 

Theron had laughed when she’d confessed that to him, grumbling the words against the table where she had her head resting on her arms, and his response that they needed to leak salacious rumours about their torrid affair to a gossip column on the holonet had earned him a napkin thrown at his face. 

She had almost spent just as many evenings dining alone as she had with him, given how often he’d had to bail out at the last minute for a work commitment that suddenly needed him on the far side of the Mid Rim, or how often he seemed to get caught up in his own head and forget entirely about their plans. Normally, she wouldn’t have been perturbed by his being late. 

But that was before he’d tersely limited their contact, with the vague warning that they were being monitored. She wasn’t sure if that was as a result of her actions, or whether Theron had been up to more trouble than normal. 

Although given the disaster that was Ziost and how happily they’d turned to Theron as a scapegoat for the tens of thousands of Republic deaths, she was terrified to think what might be considered more trouble than _normal_ for him.

The cafe they’d arranged to meet at wasn’t busy, so she wasn’t feeling pressured to give up the table for other patrons, but Theron’s absence was troubling. She poked at the crumbling, sticky slice of whatever it was she’d absently ordered- something flaky and nutty, at least- while she scanned the busy plaza and tried not to make it look like she was anxious. 

Just when she was wondering whether it would be appropriate to ping him on his holo, or whether it was best to just accept that he wasn’t coming, she saw a speeder come sliding in fast to the speeder station down the block, not chaotically so, but fast enough that it made her sit up and pay attention. There were no shouts of alarm when it vanished into the overhang, so presumably the pilot hadn’t crashed it, and a moment later a familiar figure came staggering around the corner before straightening and hurrying towards the cafe with a lanky stride that set her at ease.

She smiled, going to rise from her chair to greet him-

-and pausing for a moment when she spotted what it was he had in his arms. Namely, a small bouquet of flowers and a small box that he was turning over and over in one hand. 

Right. _Well_. That was- that was definitely _not_ what she’d been hoping for when she’d told him she wanted to see him. Stars above, surely Theron couldn’t have gotten the wrong idea about their friendship, after all these years... could he? 

He spotted her at last, and didn’t break his determined stride. She was half convinced he was going to walk up to her and thrust the gifts at her and then stomp away before she even had a chance to react. 

Which was why she was totally caught unprepared when he threw his arms around her and dragged her in close, hugging her so tight that she squeaked in surprise.

“I _promise_ I’m not manhandling you,” she heard him murmur, “but please just play along, okay? It’s not what it looks like.”

Intrigued by his vague request, she nonetheless relaxed in his embrace, wrapping her own arms around him and returning the hug. “You know, you don’t have to come up with mysterious reasons for wanting physical affection,” she teased. And alright, some of the relief came from the reassurance that he wasn’t about to try and ardently confess long pent-up feelings to her. “I’m quite fond of hugs.” 

“I’ve missed you _so_ much,” he said loudly, with a convincing amount of emotion in the words. A waitress glanced briefly at them as she headed past with a tray of dirty dishes. “I thought I’d lost you.”

When Ona’la went to let go of him, he held on tighter. “Just two more seconds,” he hissed, and she felt his fingers slide under the worn leather band of her headpiece. She felt rather than heard something clicking into place, and then he was stepping back, a look of awkward relief on his face and his ears bright red as he thrust the flowers at her. 

Ona’la took them hesitantly, tattooed brows raised questioningly. 

“I _did_ miss you,” he said, immediately stuffing his hands into his pockets and shuffling backwards a step. “That much was the truth.”

“So the flowers are a lie?”

“Kriff, do you know how much it _costs_ to buy fresh flowers on Coruscant? And I’m broke, you know, that whole _getting fired_ thing, so honestly out of everything here today the flowers are the _least_ amount of the lie.”

She couldn’t help herself- she smiled as she sniffed them. “Sentence structure not proving to be your strong point again, Shan?” 

He looked at her with exaggerated wounded pride. “Just for that, I’m stealing your snack,” he said, slumping down into the seat opposite hers with too-long legs jutting everywhere. He reached across the table and snared the edge of her plate, dragging it back towards him and foregoing the fork to start picking at it with his fingers. “Ew, this is sweeter than it looked.”

Ona’la sat with far more grace than he had, resisting the urge to reach behind her and fiddle with whatever it was he’d surreptitiously attached to her headpiece. “So, is there an explanation for that little performance, or...?”

Theron chewed thoughtfully for a moment, very pointedly staring at the plate. “We’re being watched,” he said candidly. “Both of us. Not sure exactly who’s doing the watching, but there’s more than one faction at play here.”

“You mean, Republic and Imperial, or...?”

“More than that.” He grimaced. “Everything’s fracturing faster than anyone can patch it back together, and there’s power plays simmering under the surface just waiting for the right opportunity to strike. What I did just now,” he rubbed at the back of his neck as if it ached, but she knew he was referring to whatever it was he’d just clipped on to her, “was put a signal disruptor on you. Anyone watching us at a distance and trying to listen in on us will only get static.” 

Ona’la felt a prickle of unease run up her lekku. “I’m gone for five months and suddenly I can’t trust anyone?”

He picked absently at the cake, shredding it between his fingers. “Well, that’s hardly new,” he muttered, glancing at her and grimacing as if in apology. “And I figured- forgive me if I’m wrong- I figured this was more of a... professional meeting than a social outing.”

She felt a pang in her chest. “The way our lives are going these days, can’t it be both?” 

He chuckled under his breath, wiping his sticky fingers off on his pants. “But where are my manners?” he asked, leaning forward again with a smile that was vaguely more genuine. He looked tired, though, and she reached over and put her hand over his on the table for a moment. “I really _have_ missed you. It’s been...” 

His mouth twisted unhappily, as if he was struggling to find the words, and she rubbed her thumb over the back of his hand. “It’s okay, Theron,” she said softly. “I’m back now.”

“Yeah, but at least you got to take a long nap while all this kriffin’ bullshit was going on, it’s just-” He bit his lip and stared over past her shoulder. “It’s hard,” he said awkwardly, “not realising how much you lean on someone until they’re gone, and then suddenly you have to just, I don’t know, stand on your own. Kriff, that was painful to say. Let’s forget I ever learned how to talk.” 

“It was hard to be gone,” she said, “harder still to come back and find the world went on without you.”

He turned his hand up and squeezed hers in his, and for a moment they sat in silence while the cafe buzzed quietly around them. Then Theron cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Just so we’re clear,” he said hesitantly, “those flowers and the- it’s not like, _that_ , or anything. Uh. Just in case you were confused.”

Ona’la laughed, more relieved than she wanted to let on. “I’d come to that conclusion,” she said wryly. 

“I needed to make it look like we weren’t covertly meeting to discuss sensitive galactic political matters and well, your asshole crew keep sending me holo-messages asking when we’re getting married because they think they’re funny or something, so it seemed like an easy enough bluff to pull off for anyone keeping tabs on us.” He rubbed at his face, his ears red. “Didn’t think about how it’d feel more like trying to court my sister than anything else. Well. If I _had_ a sister. Who was blue. And sort of... tentacley.”

“Tentacley isn’t a word, and lekku isn’t that hard to say.”

“Look, I spent _real_ money on _actual_ flowers, I think that deserves some points at least.”

“Should I be planning a spring wedding, then?”

“I get hayfever,” he deadpanned, not even blinking at her joke. 

She squeezed his hand and then sat back, toying with the hem of her sleeve. “Alright then,” she said. “Given that we definitely _aren’t_ meeting to discuss sensitive galactic political matters, do you want to order anything before we get entrenched in discussing things that definitely aren’t sensitive-”

“Now I see where your crew get it from,” he said, sighing dramatically and tipping his chair back on two legs as he leaned back to look at the menu above the counter. “Do you want anything? Share a plate, or something?”

Ona’la waved a hand absently. “Order whatever you like, if you want to share, I’ll help out.”

“No preferences, or...?”

“Theron.” When he glanced at her she gave him the most withering look she could summon as she gestured to herself. “ _Twi’lek_. There are entire comedy clubs dedicated to making jokes about how we eat anything not nailed down.”

“Just being polite, _sheesh_ ,” he said, but he was grinning as he said it. “Alright, give me a second.”

The chair came back down onto four legs with a thump, and then he was sauntering up to the counter with the sort of peculiar grace that made it hard to forget his mother was Satele Shan. He hooked one foot behind the other ankle while he stood at the bar, fingers drumming on the surface as if he was full of energy and couldn’t cope with standing still even for thirty seconds. 

Ona’la found herself smiling fondly at him, and she abruptly realised that things seemed far less bleak with a friend at her side. She looked back down to the table, where her tea was slowly going cold, and instead ran her fingers over the petals of the bouquet; it wasn’t a great choice, if she was honest. Some of the flowers looked decidedly bruised and delicate, in the way that suggested it was several days old, and the bright orange and yellow colours were certainly... colourful. But as much as he’d bought them to shore up his flimsy cover story, he’d also bought them for her, and that touched her more than she would have imagined. 

It was nice to be missed. To be needed. It was nice to know that there were people who would mourn _her_ , and not the indomitable Battlemaster.

Her attention was drawn instead to the small box he’d carried with him, and curiosity got the better of her- it looked like a jewellery box, but knowing Theron she wasn’t entirely convinced it wouldn’t be some other gadget or device designed to mask his presence or shield their conversation. He liked his toys, that boy. 

When she carefully cracked it open, she was surprised to find it actually _was_ a jewellery box, and a gold brooch in the shape of the sweeping wings of the Jedi Order lay nestled against the cushioned interior of the box. 

“It’s a distress beacon,” Theron said, interrupting her train of thought as he clambered back into the chair- _honestly_ , did he not know how to use furniture correctly?- and set down a tray laden with a mountain of fries and a burger that seemed far too large to actually bite into. “Well, sort of. If you’re ever in a situation where you need help, or you need someone to know where you are if things go-” He lurched to a stop suddenly, a fry halfway to his mouth as a vague look of panic swept over his face.

“If things go...?”

He accepted the inevitable and stuffed the entire fry into his mouth before continuing. “I was going to say ‘ _if things go tits up_ ’, and realised too late that that was probably a bit disrespectful.”

“What’s wrong with saying ‘ _if things go balls up_ ’?”

Theron nearly choked on the next fry, looking at her incredulously once he’d recovered. “ _You’re_ not supposed to _say_ things like that,” he muttered, aggressively stabbing a handful of fries into the tangy sauce on the side of the dish. 

“Theron, I’ve spent the last four or five years of my life around Republic soldiers and pilots- there is no combination of curse words and expletives that I haven’t encountered, in extraordinarily lurid and creative detail.” She reached over and took a fry from the edge of his plate, lifting a tattooed eyebrow as if daring him to object to the theft. 

He rather sullenly took a large bite of the burger, pointedly chewing for longer than necessary before wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand and continuing. “As I was saying, before I was so _rudely_ sidetracked,” he said, “it’s a single pulse distress beacon, built with exo-technology, so in theory it works outside of the range of most monitored frequencies.”

“In theory?”

“It hasn’t been tested long range yet,” he said, half apologetically. “So congratulations! You get to be our test model.” 

She ran her fingers over the sweeping wings of the brooch. “So, how does it work?”

He wiped his hands on his pants again and sat forward. “It’s attuned to your genetic code,” he said. “So all you need to do is press your thumb to it, until you feel it go very abruptly cold, and it’s done. It’ll send a signal directly to me and- and my employers, with your location and your vitals as they were the moment you activated the beacon.”

His stumble wasn’t as subtle as he’d probably have liked. “Do your _employers_ know that you’re giving me this valuable piece of tech?” she asked.

Theron sighed. “Had to come up eventually.” He clasped his hands between his knees, looking troublingly earnest by his standards. “Okay. So. _Kriff_ , I don’t even know where to _start_.” 

“I’ve read as much about Zakuul’s invasion as I could while on the _Illustrious_ , but they didn’t have access to the clearance levels I normally have. I’m sure I’ve missed plenty.”

“Okay,” Theron said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Well, in that case, I’ll skip incidentals. They hit the Empire a lot harder than they hit us- which, knowing it was Vitiate all along, sort of makes sense- but that’s not really been that much of a blessing. The Imps probably posed more of a threat, what with their isotope-5 engines being retrofitted into a lot of their ships, and I guess nothing cuts ties with your ex faster than trying to wipe them off the face of the galaxy, huh?”

“I haven’t ever _had_ an ugly breakup with an entire empire to know,” she said pointedly, stealing another fry from his plate. 

“In terms of the Republic,” he continued, “the invasion shook up the establishment a lot, and made a lot of people question whether the Republic has the strength or the manpower to protect such a vast territory. There’s a lot of the usual agitators in the Senate, and if the Empire hadn’t been hit worse than us, I can guarantee we’d be dealing with the defection of multiple governments, just like Corellia, looking for a better option than us. As it is, the strength of independent factions like the Rift Alliance are only growing, because people are actively looking for an alternative.”

“They haven't actually declared themselves independent, though, have they?”

He shook his head. “The President of Balmorra still holds too much sway in their little club, and he’s very firmly pro-Republic, even if they were one of the hardest hit during the invasion. Doesn’t hurt them that by extension they have Master Dawnstar to fall back on for support- she’s just one woman, but her influence reaches a very long way.” 

Ona’la frowned slightly. “And Zakuul have withdrawn completely?” she asked. “There’s definitely not been any attempts at ongoing occupation?”

“I imagine your friend underneath the Senate Tower could give you a better answer than me,” Theron said wryly, taking another bite of his burger while Ona’la scowled at him. 

“Thexan and I are not friends, why does everyone-”

He swallowed hastily, speaking around half a mouthful. “Oh, still in denial are we? Oh okay, so you _definitely_ aren’t friends with the guy you just about declared war on Saresh for? The one you jumped in front of a sniper to save?”

“That doesn’t-”

“Nice lightsaber you got there,” he said mildly, chewing thoughtfully on the burger. “Wouldn’t have thought you’d be interested in something that gaudy, though.”

“It’s not-” She bit her tongue, reaching for the calm that wanted to stay just out of reach. “I have not had the opportunity or the time to return to Tython to construct a new one on the Forge that is properly attuned to my needs,” she explained patiently.

“Uh huh. So, what, it’s just convenient to carry _his_ around instead? Wouldn’t have thought you’d be _attuned_ to a weapon belonging to that guy.”

“Have a care, Theron, you’re beginning to sound jealous.”

He spluttered indignantly. “I’m not _jealous_ ,” he protested. “I’m worried about you. Here, okay, this is what it looks like to the sceptical bystander.” He held up his fingers to count off on. “One, you survived facing Vitiate three times. Not once, not twice, but _three times_. Do you know how _unfathomable_ that is to consider?”

She sighed, waiting for him to continue. It wasn’t the first time someone had drawn the parallels between her and Vitiate, and it wouldn’t be the last time.

“Two, you spent, what, six months trapped with Vitiate, and you walk out fine? No madness, no darkness, no lingering mind control. The only other person comparable to that would be Revan, and she definitely did _not_ walk out fine. Not only that, but you walk out with Vitiate’s private, immortal assassin at your side.”

From between gritted teeth, she said “I can assure you personally, there was nothing _fine_ about that period in my life.”

The look he gave her was sympathetic, but he charged in regardless. “Three, you magically appear back from the dead, rescued by a Sith Lord and dragging Vitiate’s son with you and trying to throw down with anyone who even looks at him sideways.”

“I do not-” She felt the heat of embarrassment prickle down her lekku. “I do not try to _throw down_. What does that even mean?”

“Fight people, Nala,” he said, resorting to her nickname. “It means you try to start a punch-up.”

“I have-” She felt the heat creep down her neck and onto her cheeks, her lekku curling slightly against her back. “-not done that today,” she finished lamely.

He cackled in triumph, returning to his food with gusto. “Okay, back on topic. Saresh has an iron grip on the Senate for now, because she was able to rally everyone in the aftermath of the invasion, but now that Zakuul have withdrawn, the cracks are bubbling up. It won’t be long before there’s some major schisms to contend with, and I don’t actually think the Republic has the strength to withstand a civil war like that.”

“So her little meeting that I interrupted the other day...?”

“That’s her attempts to preempt things,” he said with a grimace. “It’s one of the worst kept secrets in upper levels at the moment, but she’s almost... flaunting it? I don’t know if that’s the right word. She’s being defiant about it anyway.”

Ona’la toyed with the saucer that her now cold tea was sitting on, turning it slowly as she thought things over carefully. “I wouldn’t have thought some of those in attendance would be necessarily happy to work with Saresh,” she said. 

“Some of them are there willingly. Others, she’s holding something over them.” He rolled his eyes as he chewed, apparently unconcerned about talking with his mouth full. “Trant is so desperate to restore faith in the SIS and get his hands on more funding, he’ll jump through whatever hoops Saresh puts in front of him.”

“What about Garza? The general didn’t ever strike me as particularly friendly with the office of the Chancellor.”

Theron wiped his mouth clean with the napkin, crumpling it up and throwing it down into the plate. “Saresh has something on her,” he said quietly, a troubled look in his eyes. “Not sure what, exactly- whatever happened, it’s been buried deep, but it’s got to be... _unpleasant_. Garza built special ops from the ground, so for her to turn her back on it, in the middle of a war...”

Ona’la huffed out an uneasy sigh. “She can’t keep it buried forever.”

Theron laughed bitterly. “No, but she did manage to keep her own intelligence department a secret from us, even going so far as to seed the SIS with her agents. She probably would’ve been able to keep it up for years too if it hadn’t been for Ziost.”

“Ziost wasn’t your fault, Theron.”

“Oh, we’re playing this game, are we? Okay then- Uphrades wasn’t your fault.”

She flinched. “That’s not fair, Theron-”

“Why not? Both of us have dead planets on our conscience, why is my trying to comfort you different to the way you talk to me?”

“If I’d just been faster, I could have-”

Theron made a loud buzzing noise, like an alarm going off. “I’m _sorry_ , that’s the wrong answer,” he said caustically. “You don’t get to move through to the lightning prize round.”

“You are insufferable sometimes.”

“Sometimes? Only sometimes? My game is slipping, I’ll have to work harder.”

She kicked him under the table, and his chair tipped precariously for a moment before coming thumping back down on all four legs. “What’s going on with the Jedi, then? Why is nobody in Coruscant, or easy to get in contact with?”

“Same reason they’ve got you and me on a short leash,” he said. “After the- _loss_ , of most of the Sixth Line, the Council pulled back hard on unsolicited missions. Public confidence in the Order hasn’t exactly been high in recent years, and with Ziost and the whole False Revan fiasco and then the way even the greatest Jedi fell before the armies of Zakuul-”

She winced, and he reached over and squeezed her hand briefly before sitting back. “Sorry, it’s a factor,” he said awkwardly. “Anyway, the point is, between trying to clean up Tython and people pointing out they’ve lost two temples in twelve years, there’s not a whole lot of blind adoration being thrown at the Jedi these days. Satele’s got everyone on their best behaviour, but it’s, uh... it’s obvious to anyone that things are shaky.”

Ona’la rubbed at her face wearily, careful not to smudge her makeup. “The Sith must be loving this- has Lana said anything?”

“Lana’s still awol, though my uh- my employers are working on that.”

“That’s the second time you’ve mentioned your employers without elaborating.”

“I’m building up to that, okay?” His drink had left a puddle of condensation on the tabletop, and he absently traced shapes and patterns in the water. “The Sith are in a bad way, like I said- they’ve lost damn near half the Dark Council in the last eighteen months, and between the Dread Masters and Vitiate and Malgus, all they need now is for Jadis to miraculously lurch out of whatever dark hole he’s been hiding in these past few years and they’ll have the quartet of really bad decisions complete.”

“I heard...” She started and then hesitated. 

“Heard what?”

“I heard Zakuul attempted to take Korriban?”

He grimaced. “Yeah, well, it was their usual modus operandi, so long term occupation didn’t seem to be on their minds. Just... destruction. Conquest. Stars, who the fuck even knows with these assholes, nothing about what they’ve done makes sense unless it was just some kind of game to them, I don’t know. Feels like they did it just to prove they could.”

Thexan’s face, never far from her thoughts, drifted back into focus again, so coldly inscrutable and trying to mask such a violent grief. “That certainly sounds plausible,” she said softly.

“Anyway, without Marr and Nox, there’s really not a lot of Lords left who can match them in terms of influence. Imperius, maybe, but he’s young, untested. Acina certainly seems to think she’s got the power to match her ego. And there’s a few Sith who don’t hold seats- Nox had a half-brother, who can technically make a claim on her seat if he wants to, and Lord Thane _should_ have had a seat years ago but he had too many ties to Malgus. There’s Lana, of course.”

“And there’s Lord Dara,” Ona’la added.

“And there’s the Wrath,” Theron said with a grimace. “Sorry, she uh... she makes me uncomfortable. I try not to think of her- I know you seem to have some sort of weird rapport with her, or whatever, but... yeah.” 

“You folks doing okay here?” The perky voice knocked them out of their rather morbid conversation, and they both jerked back in surprise. The cafe waitress was standing beside the table, gesturing to their plates. “Want me to clear those off for you?” she asked, her headful of tentacles held back by bronze nautolan beads bound together in a string.

Ona’la recovered first. “By all means,” she said, sitting back to give her some room. 

But of course, it wasn’t that simple. 

“Hey, you’re that famous Jedi, right?” Ona’la felt her heart sink. “I was gonna go to your parade the other day, but you know, work and stuff- I saw it on the holonet after, though. The way you stopped that sniper was _super_ cool.”

Ona’la smiled weakly. “Thank you,” she said simply, stopping herself from kicking Theron under the table only by extreme willpower as he hid the fact that he was snickering behind his hand. 

“My niece thinks you’re great, she has a poster of you, got my uncle to paint a stick blue for her and everything so she could say it was her lightsaber. Said she wants to be a Jedi, but she’s already eight, she’d know by now right?”

Stars above, she wasn’t going to crush a little girl’s dreams just for the sake of casual conversation. “Tell her I didn’t join the Order until I was ten,” she said, “so if the Force is with her, her time may yet come.”

“Aw, she’s gonna be thrilled! Oh man, do you think it’d be okay if I got a holo of you and your boyfriend? To show her I met you?”

Theron’s chair almost tipped backwards, his squawk of alarm almost as funny as the look of horrified dismay on his face. “ _I’m not_ -”

“Going to object to that at all, are you darling?” Ona’la finished smoothly, shuffling her chair over next to his and throwing her arm around his shoulders and squeezing tightly. “It’s just one little photo, to make a little girl happy, right dear?”

Theron looked like he was trying to smile, but all he was managing was a bare-toothed grimace. “Oh, of course, _darling_ ,” he said stiltedly, and then under his breath, “I’ll just have to murder you in a _less_ public setting now.”

“As opposed to murdering me in the centre of the promenade, I suppose?” she murmured while the waitress fiddled with her pocket holo. 

“I will have you know I am a magnificent secret agent and I could very easily murder someone in broad daylight without-”

“Smile!” The waitress, oblivious to their macabre conversation, clicked the button, and a moment later a grainy picture of them appeared projected above the device in her hand. She gushed her thanks profusely as she cleared away their table, chatting away without any sort of care for whether they answered with the same sort of enthusiasm. When she moved away with the tray of dirty dishes, they grabbed their chance to slip away, Theron stretching outrageously while Ona’la collected her flowers and the box with the brooch in it. 

“Let’s take a walk,” Theron said, offering his elbow to her in a grand gesture, bowing his head to her. Ona’la played along, curtseying to him in return before taking his arm. 

“You’re a dork,” she said under her breath as they left the cafe.

“ _You’re_ a dork,” he said instantly in response, but when she glanced at him he was smiling too. 

They wandered away from the cafe and out towards the plaza itself, the Senate Tower looming large in the near distance while the public made the most of the good weather. The gardens and the open areas were busy, young children of every species running about under the watchful eye of their parents, political staff from the offices of the various Senators and ambassadors wandering about or taking lunch together, building contacts and alliances in the bright midday sunlight. 

It was all painfully normal, in a way that felt sort of surreal. It didn’t feel like she’d been on the brink of death a few short months ago, like they’d just come reeling back from the horror of invasion and war. 

“Okay then,” Theron said with mock cheer, patting her hand as she adjusted her grip on the crook of his elbow, “what delightfully depressing topic were we on before we got interrupted?”

Ona’la juggled the slightly wilted bouquet with the jewellery box in her free hand, frustrated with herself for not thinking to bring a larger clutch. “Are we still safe to talk, if we’re moving?”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah, movement shouldn’t affect the functionality of the device- although, while I think about it, don’t go spontaneously jumping into any fountains or anything, okay?”

“How often do you think I jump into fountains for you to specify that specifically as something I shouldn’t do?”

“Honestly?” His gaze slid sideways and he winked at her. “With you, I can never tell.”

She nudged him firmly with her elbow. “You were _talking_ about the _Sith_ ,” she said.

“Ugh, no wonder I changed the topic.”

“ _You_ didn’t change anything, the waitress interrupted. She was very polite though.”

“Oh, I’m not mad, anything that takes us away from discussing the Sith is fine with me.”

“ _Theron_.”

He sighed dramatically. “Fine, fine. The Dark Council isn’t the only political body going through members at a disturbing rate- the Jedi Council has an ominous lack of senior members these days, and while no one would be willing to voice their doubts about the relative youthfulness of the Council in public, there’s definitely a lot of it going on in private.”

“So... what, what are you saying, I need to go out and round up some senile old Jedi masters and drop them into the empty seats on the Council?”

Theron rolled his eyes, grinning. “No, what I’m saying is that people are looking for a reason to put their faith in the Jedi again, after all the bullshit that’s gone on these past few years, and the solution is probably a lot easier than most people would assume.”

Ona’la turned his words over in her head, and her fingers tightened ever so slightly on his sleeve. “You think I should take a seat on the Council,” she said finally, quietly.

“Well, it’s not like it’d surprise anyone,” Theron said, pausing when a rowdy pack of children ran across their path, giving the stragglers time to barrel past before resuming their meandering pace. “At this point it’s pretty much considered a given that Satele is grooming you to be her replacement.”

She sighed, and she probably would’ve covered her eyes with her hand if she wasn’t burdened with the flowers. “Theron, you said yourself earlier, there’s far too much in my past for people to consider me a safe option. All of my interactions with Vitiate, the years I spent travelling with Scourge, the loss of Uphrades-”

“Still not your fault, by the way.”

“And now the complications of the last few months...” She trailed off, somewhat hopelessly.

“Which brings us back to your friend under the Senate Tower,” Theron said with an aggrieved sigh. 

“He’s not-”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, he’s not your friend- but Nala, as your _actual_ friend, can you at least tell me what it is you’re doing? Why are you throwing yourself into defending this guy, after all he’s done? After what he did to _you_?”

She could hear the genuine concern in his voice, the tension in his arm where she held onto him. “I know you’re worried, Theron,” she said softly, “and I’m sorry that I’m worrying you.”

“While I appreciate the apology, it’s not an answer. Just... _trust_ me enough to believe that I’ll believe in you, okay?”

The square was busy, but not so busy that she felt they were in danger of being overheard. She slowed to a halt, Theron slowing with her, and when she turned to face him he waited patiently, the snark blessedly gone from his expression. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Theron,” she said quietly, honestly. Around them, Coruscant seethed with trillions of lives, all of them at risk because of what she was doing. “I just know that it’s the right thing to do, to save him.”

“He hasn’t really struck me as someone who wants to be saved,” Theron said, and she was grateful he said it without teasing. 

She took a deep breath. “I tried to save Vitiate _twice_ ,” she said. “I can do no less for Thexan.”

Theron stared at her for a few long moments, expression inscrutable as he considered her words, and then he sighed. “Kriff, I hate it when you get all noble and puppy-eyed,” he grumbled. “You know I can’t say no to that face.”

She punched him lightly in the arm. “I was not using a _face_ ,” she said, although the rush of immense relief at knowing he believed in her made her break out in a sunny smile. 

“Uh, you _do_ , and it’s the Republic’s greatest superweapon. Psychological warfare is what this is.”

“If that were true, I’d’ve had far more success when I went to face Saresh the other day.”

He shook his head. “Immunity. Or an experimental vaccine or something, only available to the highest tiers of government- a vaccine to boost resistance to Battlemaster Ona’la and her damn puppy-eyes.”

“If I had some sort of magical look that could wrap people around my little finger, you wouldn’t keep changing the subject every time I ask after your new employers.”

Theron slowed to a halt, and Ona’la stopped beside him; she rubbed soothingly on the inside of his arm where she still held on to his elbow, smiling at him in an attempt to offer him comfort. She could feel the vaguest sense of unease in him- well-masked of course, he had trained as a Jedi for a large part of his youth, and his mental defences were phenomenal as a result- and she wasn’t sure whether it was simply out of concern for what she would think, or whether his employer was the one causing him distress. 

She could see his jaw working, as if he was chewing over the words trying to decide what to say. She waited patiently, holding his arm in one hand and the wilted bouquet in the other. 

Finally he sighed, a grumbling sort of noise that seemed more like it wanted to be a groan. “Promise you won’t be mad,” he said hesitantly.

She lifted a tattooed eyebrow. “I came home with an enemy prince hiding under my skirts,” she said pointedly. “I don’t think I’m in a position to judge.”

He puffed out his cheeks. “Yeah, you say that,” he said awkwardly, rubbing at the back of his head. “Alright, so... I got fired. From the SIS. You knew that much, of course, it was inevitable even before you vanished for several months.”

“I’m sorry, Theron. I know how much your work meant to you.”

“Well, the thing is... it didn’t exactly precisely... stick?”

She blinked. “So, wait, you _are_ still working for the SIS?” 

A speed boarder went zooming past, scattering a group of women as they went flying across their path, and Theron hesitated when some of them skittered too close to them. Once they’d settled themselves and walked away berating the manners of the youth, Theron continued. “No,” he said simply. “Or at least, not really. It’s sort of a... splinter faction?”

“Why do you keep wording everything as a question, I can’t answer for you Theron.”

He made a frustrated noise, which she knew was directed at himself rather than at her. “There is a division of the SIS, that sort of hasn’t officially been SIS for several years now, so much as just an... independent organisation with similar goals. They have sort of... _questionable_ alliances, members that would cause a very large scandal should word of their cooperation get out.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“Just remember you promised you wouldn’t be mad,” he said warningly, and then took a deep breath. “It’s... it’s a cross-faction division. We’ve got Imps working under their own division leader, and I work under the Republic leader, and together we all sort of collaborate with information neither of us would be able to achieve or uncover on our own.”

Ona’la felt her breath catch in her chest. “Theron,” she said softly, “you could be accused of treason.”

“I’d rather take a chance on that than sit on my hands and watch the Empire and the Republic fall to Zakuul without a fight,” he said grimly, his face determined. “If I have to work with the Imps to save the Republic, well... it’s not like it’s the first time.”

She took a moment to let the implications of his words sink in, the plaza a riot of activity around them- normal, happy, mundane. People eating lunch, people chatting about their children, about their plans for the evening. No concept of the greater threats of the galaxy spinning around past them. 

She envied them that. 

“So...” She hesitated, then forged on regardless. “Are they going to help you get in touch with Lana?”

He snorted in bitter amusement. “I should hope so- given that Lana is travelling with one of our people.”

Ona’la blinked. “One of your...?”

Theron nodded. “You met her on Yavin 4,” he said by way of explanation. “Watcher One is second in command of our Imperial division.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those keeping track at home will note that we once again had mention of multiple Sith Inquisitors, just like with the Consulars- Nox you've all met already, she was Kallathe, and Imperius is named Kaltix Kallig, and he belongs to my brother. Technically speaking, Kaltix followed the canon storyline and defeated Thanaton to become a Dark Council member, whereas Kallathe murdered her father (who abandoned herself and her mother to the slave pits when she was a baby) to gain her seat. There is a third, taking the title of Occlus, but she's very secretive.


	13. Chapter 13

It was late, late enough to be early, and someone’s holo was buzzing.

Whoever that someone was, was about to die, as far as Ysaine was concerned. And from the way Shae groaned somewhere behind her and rolled over, it was not a sentiment she was alone in. “Who the fucking fuck left their holo set to earth-shatteringly loud?”

Despite the ache in her own head, Ysaine snickered. “Thought you said you could hold your drink, Vizla,” she mumbled, her voice deep and scratchy from the combination of not enough sleep and too much alcohol.

“Shut the fuck up, Pierce, or you’re on the couch.”

Levering herself up on an elbow, Ysaine blinked blearily in the near darkness, hunting out the shapes of her bedmates. There was a lump huddled on the edge of the mattress that was probably Torian, given his propensity to kick and twist in his sleep, and the larger shape sprawled to her left seemed the most likely to be Shae. “You’re in my fucking bed, Vizla,” she said, rubbing roughly at her eyes as if that would stop them from throbbing.

“Clan chieftain privilege. My bed now- now get the fuck out of it and turn off that holo.”

“Ori’buyce, khi’khovid,” Ysaine muttered under her breath as she crawled to the edge of the bed.

“What the fuck was that?”

“Nothing, dearest riduur.” She didn’t bother fumbling around in the dark for clothing, because she had no intention of answering the holo, so she slogged across the messy floor looking for the telltale glow of the device.

She only kicked her toe on three things.

“Is there a wampa loose in the room?” she heard Torian mumble, and she threw a boot back in the direction of the bed. Or at least, she thought it was a boot. It felt like a boot, in the dark, and it caused a muffled ‘ _ow_ ’ from the direction of Torian’s blanket fortress, so that caused her some mild satisfaction.

“You’re the one who _married_ the wampa,” Shae grumbled in return.

“I’m gonna turn the light on to find another boot if you two don’t shut the fuck up.”

It’s of course at that moment that her foot finds the holo buried under someone’s pants on the floor, and accepts the call before she can turn it off.

There was a bright spear of blue light as the little holo image appeared down by her knee, and even as she winced and put a hand up to cover her eyes, there was a horrified bellow from below.

“Fucking _shit_ , Izzy, I didn’t call because I wanted to see my sister’s fucking _dick_ , kriffin’ hell!”

Blinking at the sound of the familiar voice, she bent down and scooped up the holo. “Gabby?” she said in confusion, lifting it up to a more appropriate height for their conversation. “What the fuck are you doing calling me at this hour of the morning?”

Her younger brother glared up at her, one hand held half to his face as if he was still trying to shield his gaze. “I can still _see_ you, you obnoxious tart,” he said, a pained expression on his face. “For the love of fuck, put some fucking clothes on. And I’ve told you not to call me Gabby.”

She yawned wide, rolling her eyes. “You speak like that around the nibs?” she said, hooking a shirt off the back of a nearby chair and draping it around her; hopefully that would satisfy his dainty sense of propriety.

“Connie and Vaane are currently at the point where they enjoy eating dirt whenever I’m not looking, so I don’t think my occasional use of the word fuck is the biggest thing that’s gonna scar ‘em at the moment.”

“Oooh, but your sith lady love is so proper and formal, figured she’d be big on raising the brats all proper like.”

“Well, at the very least we’re gonna raise ‘em not to answer holo calls in the fucking buff,” he said. “Fucking stars, gonna have to go bleach my eyeballs after that fucking view.”

“I’ll have you know there are many people-”

“Don’t say it.”

“-who enjoy that view immensely,” she said, grinning ruthlessly.

“Stop talking about your dick and turn the fucking holo off!” The boot she’d thrown earlier went sailing past her, but even if the aim was off the intent was clear. “ _Some_ of us have a _hangover_.”

“Some of us clearly _lied_ about how much tihaar they could hold,” she snapped back over her shoulder.

Her brother’s face was a little more smug when she turned back to the holo. “Interrupt something, did I?” he drawled, the smug little shit.

She held up a finger in warning. “You’ve got two seconds to tell me why the fuck you woke me up, before I disconnect this call.”

“Hey, calm down you old cow, you gettin’ cranky in your old age?”

“One.”

“Fuck, alright, alright. I didn’t know where you were, and it’s mid morning here, so it’s not my fault I got you in a bad time zone.” His expression turned serious. “I’m calling work related. _Your_ work, specifically.”

“You want me to kill someone? Ain’t your lady love the big fancy assassin for the Council, or something? Whatever her title is these days?”

He grimaced, somewhat pained. “Yeah, sort of, but uh... that’s not it. We need to know if someone wanted someone else dead in the last couple of weeks.”

Behind her, she heard someone sit up- Shae probably.

“I’m listening,” Ysaine said cautiously.

“It’d be a blacklist bounty, if anything. We’re looking for anyone who might have put out a contract on that Prince Thexan prat.”

From the bed, she heard Shae laugh somewhat incredulously. “Fuck’s sake,” she heard her mutter, somewhat amused and somewhat frustrated.

Ysaine rubbed wearily at her eyes; her implants were aching in her skull, a sign she’d pushed herself a little too hard with the drinks as well. “I’m pretty sure damn near half the galaxy wants to kill those little shabuirs,” she said, “so I don’t see why it’d be a surprise to see a bounty out for him.”

“Isn’t that one dead?” Torian called from beneath his mountain of blankets.

“What’d he say?”

“He said he thought that one was dead,” Ysaine repeated for Gabriel’s benefit.

“How many people you fucking well got in there with you?”

She leered at him. “Thought you didn’t want to know the sordid details, Gabby,” she said.

“Kriffin’ hell, you old tart, you’re like, twelve fucking year older than me and getting twice as much sex.”

“Look, I’d love to stay and chat to you about all the freaky Force sex you’re having with your sith lady love, but uh... was that _honestly_ all you were calling for?”

Gabriel rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, and it suddenly occurred to her that he looked quite a lot older than when she’d last seen him. He’d taken to fatherhood like a duck to water, she knew that much from the occasional vids he sent through of the twins, but he looked tired. Weary, in a way that she didn’t think was precisely from the sleepless nights that came from two squalling sets of lungs in the night. “Thexan ain’t dead,” he said, “but not for lack of trying. He turned up in Coruscant two days ago under heavy guard- with the Jedi Battlemaster.”

Ysaine’s eyebrows rocketed up towards her hairline. “Wasn’t she dead too?”

“Yeah. Never seems to stick with her.”

“I’m glad we didn’t have to kill _that_ one,” Torian called.

Ysaine snorted. “That’s an understatement,” she said. “So, what, Prince Prat ain’t dead but someone tried to make a job of it?”

“Sniper strike, assassin killed ‘emself after. Republic are blaming Zakuul, Zakuul is calling it an inside job and saying they’ve got a lookalike to mock ‘em with. Empire’s tight-lipped about the whole affair and Tahrin still can’t get in contact with the woman who heads up Intelligence, so she wants to know what else is on the table.”

Ysaine considered the question seriously for a few long moments. “Nothing on the blacklist,” she said slowly, choosing her words carefully. “Doesn’t mean no one put an offer out, though. They could’ve gone direct to someone, or they could’ve gone to someone like GenoHaradan- especially if it was a Republic sanctioned hit, they’d know they’d have more luck keeping those Geno bastards quiet than your standard bounty hunter. I’m assuming it’s not the sort of thing someone would just wave in front of the Bounty Broker’s, after all.”

“There’s plenty of smaller guilds who might’ve been tempted, if the pay was big enough,” Shae called from behind her. “Goa-Ato, Aggression Management, Blood for Credits, Rancorfodder- hell, given that the brat was some kind of fucking Jedi, it could very easily have been Crimson Nova, they specialise in Jedi types.”

“I’ve killed plenty of Jedi, you don’t see me wearing a fucking Nova badge,” Ysaine said over her shoulder.

Shae held her hands up in surrender. “Hey, I was just expanding our options.”

“ _Our_ options?”

The flickering blue light of the holo made her grin even more wicked. “Sure, I’ve been bored as shit since those Zakuul assholes fucked off and took their sky droids with them. They were fun for target practice.”

Ysaine groaned irritably and looked back to the holo. “So, what, is this a job or something? You want me to find who tried to kill the prick that literally half the galaxy wants to kill?”

“Tahrin’s good for the creds,” Gabriel said, face serious again. “You’ll get paid for it.”

“You know I _killed_ the last sith who hired me, right?”

Gabriel’s grin was utterly ruthless, even through the grainy feed of the holo. “You wouldn’t stand a chance against her, love, so don’t push it.”

“Careful, Gabby, you almost sound smitten.”

“I know where to put my money, Izzy, and it’s not on an old lumbering cow like you.”

She clucked her tongue in mock disapproval. “Just for that, I might be tempted to try one day,” she said.

“I’ll tell her you said hi.”

He disconnected before she could, and she tossed the now powered off holo onto the floor, stumbling back towards the bed. Shae moved aside to give her more room, but Torian appeared to have already drifted back off to sleep.

Shae’s arm slid over her hip and dragged her back up against her, warm and soft, and her hand dipped down tauntingly towards her dick. “Didn’t know your brother was a sith-fucker,” she said sleepily, her tone belaying the teasing her hand was doing.

Ysaine snorted again, pressing her ass back again Shae. “Kids and everything, real domestic like,” she said, already winding down again now that she had a pillow under her head.

“Did you call her the council assassin? Like, the Wrath?”

“Oh yeah, that’s the name I was trying to remember- why?”

Shae nuzzled briefly at the back of her neck, teeth scraping over her skin. “I met her, back on Yavin 4, during the whole False Revan thing. She’s, uh...”

When she didn’t finish that sentence, Ysaine chuckled. “Yeah. That about sums her up.”

* * *

The Jedi no longer had a temple on Coruscant, so they made the best of the space they already had in the Senate Tower. There’d briefly been some consideration towards restoration efforts, while the Cold War had lingered year after year, but the resources were needed more urgently for establishing their new home on Tython. And then, once the war efforts were renewed, the resources went towards rebuilding Tython again, after the Revanite attack.

So things were a little cluttered on Coruscant, a little cramped. It helped that they were able to house most of the Jedi off site, either in military barracks or in privately donated apartments like the one Ona’la was making the most of. It didn’t help that the enforced proximity to the Senate meant that every single diplomat and ambassador and politician thought they had a right to simple wander into the Jedi chambers and demand the Order’s immediate aid on whatever issue was vexing them. As such, Ona’la didn’t particularly like to make use of the chambers in the Senate tower, unless need absolutely made it necessary. She _liked_ helping people, of course, and often a great number of the petitioners were there with a legitimate cry for help, but sometimes...

... sometimes she got stuck with men like Senator Doli-bur Barc, who had tried to obtain her support in his renewed drive for overturning Law 44-12. Namely, her public support for a bill that wanted to undermine the Republic _Rights of Sentience_ clause, by legalising the very same slave collars that had been used on her as a child.

As it was, she was more than a little emotional by the time she made her way into the inner sanctum of the Jedi chambers, hoping to find Satele but at the very least ready to accept the peace and quiet of the private rooms further in.

What she was not expecting was to find one of the Jedi Masters taking advantage of the same solitude by weeping quietly in the central chamber.

She would have withdrawn immediately and left the woman to her private moment of grief, had she apparently not made enough noise to draw her attention; the woman spun around in her chair, her dark eyes wide with dismay at having been found, and one hand going up to her mouth, as if to hide the way her lip trembled. “Oh, stars, I’m- I’m so sorry, I didn’t think anyone-”

“It’s alright, Master, I’m the one who should be apologising.” She took in the long twists of black hair, the dark skin, the familiar bronze armour, the name clicking in to place shortly after. “It’s Master Xo, isn’t it? Xolani Xo? From the Sixth Line?”

The woman smiled weakly, trying desperately to wipe away the tears on her face as she dropped her gaze to her lap. “What little remains of the Sixth Line, Battlemaster. I’m sorry for my lack of composure, my manners seem to have fled.”

Ona’la moved to take the seat beside her, hesitating for a moment before reaching out to put her hand over hers. “Please, there’s no need for apologies,” she said. “What is it that distresses you so? Is there anything I can do for you?”

“I doubt you came here to fuss over an old woman too emotional to cry in the privacy of her own rooms, my dear, but I appreciate the gesture.”

“I would hardly call you old, Master Xo, so that should really be the least of your worries.” She stroked her hand gently over the back of hers. “Please, tell me what I can do to help.”

Master Xo took a moment to compose herself, a few shaky breaths the only sounds between them. “It’s fine, my dear, please- don’t worry yourself on my account. Are you after Grandmaster Shan? I know she was here earlier, but I’m not sure if she’s still about.”

Meeting with Satele would come soon enough- for the moment, someone was in pain, and it was within her means to do something about it. “How is Master Surro?” she asked gently, noting the way that Xolani immediately tensed at the mention of the former leader of the Sixth Line. “I’m afraid I’ve been extraordinarily busy since my return, and I’ve not had the opportunity to look in on her. Is she still based here on Coruscant?”

“She, um- she is,” Master Xo said, and she was shaking quite noticeably. “Perhaps the strength of the Force on Tython would have been better for her recovery, but with the Revanite attacks, they lack the facilities to um... to care for someone in her condition. At least here, we have access to the best physicians in the Republic, and she...”

She trailed off, her voice wavering noticeably, and Ona’la squeezed her hand comfortingly. Under her palm, she felt what was almost certainly the plain metal band of a wedding ring on Master Xo’s ring finger, and suddenly her distress made a lot more sense.

Stars above, she hadn’t even realised that Surro was married. Granted, the Jedi didn’t necessarily like to loudly advertise their private relations, but she and Surro had been contemporaries, and had worked together on more than one occasion prior to Ziost. The leader of the Sixth Line had been unorthodox in a lot of her dealings, but she hadn’t expected her to remain tight-lipped on her own marriage.

Goddess preserve her, she was the Battlemaster, a figurehead and leader, and she couldn’t even rightly say she knew the people she served with as well as she should.

“I am certain she is in excellent hands,” Ona’la said softly, running her thumb gently back and forth on Master Xo’s hand. “And I am certain that having you at her side is an immense comfort for her.”

Master Xo shuddered, her free hand going up to her face as if she hoped to hide her tears from Ona’la. “I- I’m sorry, Battlemaster, if it’s alright with you, I... I need to be alone right now.”

Spotting movement out of the corner of her eye, Ona’la glanced towards the door to see Satele standing just inside the entrance, hands clasped demurely before her and a sorrowful look on her face as she observed them. When she caught Ona’la’s gaze, she nodded discreetly towards the door, an invitation for her to join her and leave Master Xo to her grief.

Patting her gently on the arm as she rose, Ona’la still felt awkward as she walked away from her, as if she was fleeing rather than taking the time to help. Her distress must have shown on her face, because Satele’s look was sympathetic as she took her by the arm and hooked her own through it, leading the both of them into the hallway beyond.

Once Satele had quietly engaged the door to a do-not-disturb status- not an outright lock, for safety reasons, but enough that Master Xo would be assured her privacy- Ona’la said “Should we have someone look in on her, or escort her back to her quarters?”

Satele’s lips twisted unhappily. “Master Xo needs time, and peace, and she will find neither here on Coruscant at Master Surro’s bedside,” she said, carefully guiding Ona’la down the hall towards her own private office. “As cruel as that may seem, we must always remember that we are Jedi first and foremost, and Xolani is powerless to act while she is crippled by her grief.”

The words sat uncomfortably within her. “We are nothing if we are not compassionate,” she said, a weak attempt at a counter argument, and she knew it.

“We cannot allow our personal desires to interfere with who we extend our compassion to,” Satele said, closing the door behind them and indicating that she should join her by the window. Far below them, the Senate Plaza was abuzz with activity as usual at this time of day, and the distant skyline buzzed with traffic. “We are only mortal, after all, and attachment is inevitable to some extent, be it to friends or colleagues or lovers. But we have a duty to the people of the Republic, to the people of the galaxy, to lay down our personal desires and act as their shield and guardian against the darkness. If we allow our personal interests to cloud our judgement, as Master Xo has done, then we have failed in our sacred duties.”

Ona’la bowed her head for a moment, gathering her thoughts. “Master, I cannot help but feel that your words are somewhat of a warning for myself, too,” she said carefully.

Satele’s sigh was quiet, resigned. “Ona’la, your confrontation with Saresh was extremely ill-advised,” she said. “While I and a great many others can appreciate what it is you are attempting to do for him, you do not do Prince Thexan any favours by behaving in such a manner.”

“And what manner might that be?”

“Antagonistic. Irrational. Confrontational- to name a few.”

She breathed out sharply through her nose. “If my defence of a man who sorely needs someone to have faith in him is seen as confrontational-”

“Ona’la, you forced your way into the Supreme Chancellor’s office during a confidential committee meeting, and all but threatened Saresh with witnesses present. What _else_ would you consider confrontational?”

“Is this your way of informing me I do not have the support of the Council?”

Satele let out a long breath that sounded just shy of being a groan. “Ona’la, please, you must acknowledge the delicate nature of the situation we find ourselves in. The faith placed in our Order is at an almost all-time low, and Master Braga’s original plan to redeem Vitiate has inadvertently caused the deaths of tens of thousands of Republic citizens and millions of Imperial citizens. If you believe that there is a way to redeem the prince, then we must tread with caution, not arrogance.”

“I _do_ believe he can be redeemed,” she said earnestly.

“Then you must temper yourself, my dear, because we are just as much diplomats as we are warriors. I have always appreciated your determination to seek a peaceful resolution in all things.” She placed a hand on her shoulder. “Ona’la, this is no different- you cannot take the path of aggression right now, not with something that has the potential to further drive a wedge between the Order and the Republic.”

Ona’la opened her mouth to argue, but she was preempted by a voice from the door. “The Grandmaster speaks the truth, Battlemaster,” Asmi Adhi said, her hand on the doorframe ostensibly to support her from swooning onto the floor. The Barsen’thor looked far more wan than she had the other day during the committee Ona’la had interrupted, and she felt a sharp pang of guilt worrying that perhaps her argument with Saresh had prompted a relapse in the woman’s recovery. “Saresh is not interested in a peaceful resolution, she is interested in victory- a peaceful resolution only led us to further war, in her eyes, and she will not tolerate a second cold war. Your interference aggravated her immensely.”

Ona’la stiffened, but still moved to assist Master Adhi to a seat, which she took to with a murmured sigh of thanks. “My interference would not have been necessary had she not just taken the time to speak with me, instead of blocking me at every avenue.”

The togruta woman looked at her sternly, as if chastising her, which was probably more amusing than anything given that their titles bestowed them an equal ranking, and that Master Adhi was probably a year or two younger than she was. “You are not the only one to have suffered from a painful history,” she said pointedly. “It was unbecoming of you to accuse the Supreme Chancellor of being negligent of the ongoing practice of slavery, when you know that she has suffered just as greatly as you in that regard.”

Satele made a noise of disappointment beside her, and this time Ona’la did feel the prickle of shame along her lekku. “ _Ona’la_ ,” Satele said, that single word conveying a multitude of emotions, all of which made her feel about two inches tall.

Ona’la bowed her head. “I was frustrated,” she said, “and I didn’t appreciate her talking down to me.”

“That justifies such a cruelty?”

“It does not,” she said, and then she bit her tongue while she composed herself. “I will apologise to her.”

Master Adhi smiled wanly. “I would appreciate that, thank you,” she said. “It would certainly make my job a lot easier.”

She debated whether or not it was appropriate to push her case, but decided she was well past the point of concern for such things. “But she still intends to go ahead with the trial?”

“She does. The preliminary hearing is in two days time- I’m surprised you hadn’t heard yet.” At that, Master Adhi hesitated. “It is... _possible_ , perhaps, that Saresh intended to have the trial broadcast on the holonet, and that someone with... a high public profile, currently riding on a new wave of popularity after months of absence, might be able to work a public trial to their advantage.”

“Master Adhi,” Satele scolded, but she sounded more resigned than angry.

“Just because I admire the Chancellor and appreciate the opportunity to work at her side does not mean I have lost my way from the Order,” Master Adhi said calmly. “If I believed that there was no hope of redemption for those who have wandered from the Light, I would currently be in the peak of health, and not resigned to a life of enduring the pettiness of politicans.”

The reminder of everything she had sacrificed to bring a single lost Jedi home to the Order dug in deep, and Satele nodded her head in acknowledgment. “Deliberately antagonising the Chancellor and the Senate is still not something I can condone in any way,” Satele said pointedly. “But you are certain this is a fight you wish to undertake?”

She thought of Thexan’s grief and fear when he’d yet to wake from unconsciousness, the way he struggled to process basic acts of kindness. She thought of how intensely he’d fought with his own instincts simply to thank her, and how he’d looked at her in the moments after she’d saved him from the assassin, like he was only seeing her for the first time ever in that moment.

“It is,” she said softly, with more certainty than she had ever felt before. “It truly is.”

* * *

He felt her presence approaching long before she appeared at his door.

He’d endured over a week of relentless questioning- he hesitated to call it interrogation, because apart from their inability to leave him alone, none of their tactics were even remotely intimidating- and he had been at the point where he was beginning to suspect that she’d abandoned him once again. Ona’la ran so hot and cold that he couldn’t find his balance around her- one moment she’d be aggressively invading his space, touching him gently and treating him like a friend, and the next she’d vanish for days at a time, with no response to his plaintive and occasionally brattish demands for attention.

It was foolish of them not to bring her in on the interrogation attempts, because she unsettled him so thoroughly that it frightened him to think how easily he might stutter and stumble in her presence. If she had sat quietly on the other side of the table while they badgered him with questions, stars... if she’d looked at him the way she’d looked at him on the dais, his lightsaber in her hands and her hand on his cheek, he probably would’ve told her anything.

She was extraordinarily dangerous, and the intelligence files had vastly underestimated her. She was not a famed Jedi because of her indomitable skill with a blade, or her cool head on a battlefield- she was a famed Jedi because her _heart_ was a far more dangerous weapon than her lightsaber ever would be.

So when he felt the subtle tremor in the Force that was her presence, the whisper of her immense power resonating through him, he steeled himself. Master Ona’la was a threat to him.

He would not allow himself to be pulled further into her influential reach.

Even if a part of him wanted to shudder with relief that she had not forgotten him, or abandoned him in the face of the Republic’s might.

He would _not_.

He did not get up from the bed to greet her, instead laying as he had been prior to her approach- hands clasped over his belly, a vague protection for the scar that still ached at the end of the day if he tried to fill his hours with too much physical activity. He had to remember that it was only two short months ago that he had taken a lightsaber- _Arcann’s lightsaber_ \- through his torso, and that most people would not have survived such an injury. He knew better than to push himself too far, and yet...

... and yet he rested his hands over his belly, just over the scar, some sort of nebulous and pathetic attempt at self preservation.

The footsteps came to a halt outside of his room, just beyond the transparent forcefield door, and something in his gut lurched painfully at the quiet murmur of _her voice_. He gritted his teeth and tried to ignore it, just as he tried to tune out the gentle sound of her words as she spoke to the guards beyond his cell, as he listened to them respond and clank down the hallway and out of the immediate vicinity, leaving the two of them alone.

He hadn’t missed her. He didn’t want to associate her with the only stability he was likely to find in the nightmare that had become his life these last few months- or to think of her as the first soul to find him and tether him in the moments after waking up from the lifelong nightmare that had been his existence up to now-

His fingers curled against his stomach, nails pressing sharply against the coarse linen weave of his prison clothing. If he pressed any harder, he’d hurt himself, but right now maybe that was what he needed, something to distract him from her, something to stop her from winding him tighter around her-

“Hello, Thexan.”

He almost choked on the breath he’d been holding, and it ruined any chance he had of remaining aloof and unaffected by her.

“Are you alright?”

He gritted his teeth and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He didn’t look at her. “What do you want?” he asked, that words far more sullen than he would have liked.

“No hello? No ‘ _thank you for saving my life again_ ’?” When he didn’t answer, she sighed. “I came to check in on you, and see that you were alright.”

“Why now? Why not a week ago, when you first dragged me here against my will? Why not any of the days between then and now?”

She didn’t answer immediately, and when she did, the words were laden with remorse. “I was forbidden from maintaining contact with you,” she said quietly, and he finally allowed himself to glance over at her.

And for a heartstopping moment, the galaxy condensed down to just the two of them, with nothing to intrude upon them or interrupt them; a moment where he was not a hated fugitive and a criminal and an enemy general, and where she was not his greatest adversary and greatest source of vexation.

She looked _extraordinary._

The pulsing red of the electro-field marred her beauty somewhat, her blue skin tainted by the red shadows, but otherwise she looked remarkable. He’d grown so accustomed to thinking of her as a warrior, as the Battlemaster, but in the soft silk tunic and the heavy jewellery she seemed like a different woman entirely. Soft. Gentle. She was always gentle with him, even when she was firm, but this was...

... this was something else.

It was like the moment on the dais, when he’d truly seen her transform into Battlemaster and he realised just how greatly he’d underestimated her. Except _more_ , because this was something far more vulnerable and far more inviting, not a warrior but the woman beneath- not that she _wasn’t_ a woman when she was the Battlemaster, but this was-

- _confusing._

“Thexan?”

He’d climbed to his feet and crossed almost to the door before her voice jolted him enough to knock him out of the daze he was in. He froze, horrified at how close he’d come to falling under her spell entirely, and humiliated at how easily he’d slipped.

Ona’la, for her part, did not seem to notice his distress- or if she did, she chose not to comment upon it. “I don’t know if you heard me just now- I said I was sorry for not coming to see you sooner. I should have...” Her mouth twisted unhappily, and his gaze flicked to her lips briefly, to where she had painted them with what looked like purple with gold flecks; that could have just been the buzzing light of the electro-field reflecting in the glossy depths, though. He wished the red was gone, so that he could see for certain. He wished there was a physical, solid door between them. “I should have pushed. I should have fought to see you.”

Thexan swallowed down the wad of emotions in his throat, doing his best to keep his expression neutral. “You are assuming of course that the sentiment is mutual, and I would have desired your company in return.”

A shadow of irritation passed over her face before she buried it, her eyes just as warm and inviting and concerned as always, and stars above he didn’t want her to look at him like that. “Have you been treated well? Is there anything I can get for you?”

“My freedom,” he said instantly, a bold challenge in his words; it was a dare and a mockery, because they both knew she wouldn’t give it to him.

But she surprised him. “Would you be safe?” she asked quietly, her expression solemn and unflinching. She was _serious_. “You told me your brother struck you down when you attempted to kill your father, but your brother is an Emperor now, and he says you died in battle. Would you be safe with him, or would he hurt you?”

 _She’s prodding at you for information_ , his thoughts warned him, but he found himself answering anyway, “I don’t know.”

Stars above, he wished she would stop looking at him. “How would you get home?” she asked, her hands clasped before her, the quiet tinkle of her numerous jewellery pieces as she moved and shifted a subtle background harmony to her voice.

 _Don’t answer that._ “There’s a number of ways I could do it,” he said, moving closer to the forcefield, moving closer to her. “It wouldn’t be so hard to fight my way free from here, vanish into the lower levels of the city. Bide my time before stealing a ship.

She didn’t say anything in response, simply waiting to see what he wanted to say next.

“Or I could make an effort to leave my mark on the city before I leave,” he continued, close enough to the electro-field that he could feel the hair on his arms stand on end at the energy crackling over his skin. “You’ve got me pinned down in the depths of the Senate Tower, after all. The most critical building in all of the Republic- I’m quite certain I could turn that to my advantage.”

He was watching her so closely that it would have been impossible not to notice the moment when her tongue discreetly darted out to wet her lips. “That’s certainly ambitious, if vague,” she said.

“I wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise, now, would I? But I’m certain that taking political prisoners of a certain calibre would work to my betterment.”

“So you want to break out, vandalize the Senate, take me hostage and demand passage to Zakuul- do I have you right?”

“At it’s most basic, yes. If you want to know more,” and he was aware of how dark her eyes had gone, how uneven her breathing was, and he leaned as close to the forcefield as he dared, “all you’d have to do would be to let me out of this cell.”

She didn’t even hesitate- with a wave of her hand, the locks disengaged and the forcefield snarled away to nothing. Ona’la stepped back, her face impassive, while Thexan stood blinking in the open doorway like a fool.

“I- what are you doing?”

“You told me all I had to do was to open the cell,” she said, her voice cool. “Well, here you are, Thexan- here’s your chance at freedom.”

He felt as if he was full of air, like nothing made sense at all and the galaxy had just spun upside down. “... what is this?”

“Your freedom,” she repeated, her hands clasped demurely before her. There was a spark of fire in her eyes, steel hiding under the gentle silk exterior that he had _once again underestimated._

_Damn it._

“I- no,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest and deliberately taking a step back. “This is another one of your traps.”

She lifted a perfectly tattooed eyebrow- which, he couldn’t help but notice, perfectly framed her eyes, which were adorned in brilliant smears of purple and gold. “I have _never_ trapped you, Thexan,” she said, and he hated her for the honesty in her voice. “I have gone out of my way at every turn to see to your comfort and safety. That you would rather choose to believe me capable of deception, after everything I have done for you, is immensely hurtful.”

“I don’t care about your _hurt_ ,” he snarled, “put the door back!”

There was a flicker of genuine remorse and hurt on her face as she lifted her hand and waved it in the direction of the lockpad. A moment later, the red shield flared back to life, locking them away from each other. “As you requested,” she said quietly, the hurt evident in her voice.

He could have stepped out of the cell. He could have grabbed her, taken back his lightsaber, used her as a shield against the inevitable tides of troopers and guardsmen that would pour down into the cell blocks to neutralise him. He could have used her life to barter for his own safety, to demand a ship, safe passage, he could have killed her for the insult she’d done to him by imprisoning him in the first place.

But he hadn’t.

She’d placed her faith in him, without even questioning the immense stupidity of such an action, and it had terrified him back into place.

Undoubtedly that was her plan all along. She was far more clever than he assumed, always one step ahead of him. She wasn’t doing it to gain his trust, or to help him, or to do anything that was for his benefit.

She was his enemy.

He needed to remember that.

“Your trial is in two days,” she said, and she’d moved back to the very front of the forcefield, as close as she could without physically stepping into it. “I’ve been trying to make arrangements on your behalf to see that you are properly represented.”

“Why?” he asked sharply, still hugging his arms around his torso as he stayed right at the back wall. As far from her as he could manage.

“Because you deserve to be treated fairly, and with dignity. I may not be able to put a stop to this farce, but I will do everything in my power to see that you are kept safe.”

There was anger in her voice- subtle, but unmistakable once you knew where to look for it. “Why are you doing this?” he asked, and he hated the way his voice tremored slightly.

Her gaze could pierce right through him, he was sure of it. She could see every broken part of him, every ragged emotion and hidden fear and desperate yearning as if he’d laid them out for her perusal, he knew it.

“Because it’s the right thing to do,” she said quietly. “And just because you refuse to believe in yourself, doesn’t mean that I will do the same thing.”

She turned and left, her footsteps echoing down the empty corridor.

He did not relax until the sound of her was swallowed up in the distance.

Her perfume lingered for hours.


	14. Chapter 14

They came for him early on the second day. 

Despite her assurances, Thexan had seen no sign of any legal representative like Ona’la had promised him; he didn’t care either way whether he was represented in the trial, because nothing about this farce deserved the honour of his attention. He didn’t acknowledge the Republic’s right to pass judgement over him, so what was the point in seeking legal counsel? Nothing that occurred in this extravagant congratulatory pissing contest meant anything to him- the Republic and the Chancellor wanted to use him as a trophy, a prize for their cabinet, so there was no point in taking them seriously. 

They were fools, all of them, and inevitably he would destroy them. It was what he was meant for, after all.

What he didn’t want to think about was the fact that Ona’la might have lied to him, or worse, that perhaps his pitiful attempts at intimidation or persuasion or... _flirtation_ , stars, whatever madness it was that had come over him in the cell two days earlier, had been enough to dissuade her from helping him at all. He’d done nothing but push back, ever since he’d woken to find her there to anchor him in his panic, and was it honestly so surprising that she might, _finally_ , have reached her breaking point?

In the silence of the night and day that followed, with no interruptions but for the changing of the guards outside his cell and the unmarked appearance of his food twice daily, he had nothing but his thoughts to occupy him, wondering what had possessed him to push at her so forcefully. He obsessed over it, the shame that came from underestimating her so badly, knowing once again she had so easily bettered him, but even more ashamed of the flash of hurt and disappointment he’d felt from her before she’d masked it from him. 

He didn’t want to think about why her hurt was painful to him. He didn’t want to think anything about her apart from vague contempt and perhaps a grudging respect for her abilities. 

He didn’t want to think about her at all. 

She was the _only_ thing he thought of, in between the fitful sleep he managed over the two nights. He dreamed of Arcann, and he dreamed of Ona’la, and he dreamed of home. He dreamed he saw Arcann fall on the steps of the spaceport, with Ona’la’s lightsaber leaving a bright burning scar across his stomach. He dreamed he went home, he dreamed of his own death, he dreamed of his father’s death.

He woke each time in a cold sweat, his muscles aching as if he’d run a thousand miles, and for a few brief seconds each time he was bewildered when her gentle fingers were not there to calm him and soothe him back from the edge of panic. More than once he reached out through the Force towards her, just as he had on the _Illustrious_ , before he woke up enough to realise what he was doing. She was not close at hand, as she had been on the ship, so he tried to comfort himself with the knowledge that she probably would have felt nothing at such a distance. 

Even if she could sense him, it wasn’t like he could humiliate himself any further in front of her. 

It was what he told himself when they came for him on the second morning, the Captain of the Senate Guard in his brilliant blue armour and ridiculous feathered helm and a faceless company of four soldiers in the stark white and orange armour that he recognised as Havoc Squad. Their visors were down, no way to distinguish them one from the other, and in their midst was Master Dawnstar yet again, there to be the counterbalance against his own Force abilities. 

Eight Senate guardsmen, one captain of the guard, four elite ops soldiers and one Jedi Master. 

He’d had _worse_ odds arrayed against him, to be fair.

But when he stopped to consider the possibility of escape, of how precisely he would go about incapacitating them and humiliating them for their treatment of him, all he could think of was Ona’la’s complete trust in him when she’d disengaged the locks on his cell, how she hadn’t hesitated for even a heartbeat.

How the line between his head crying out _deception_ and his heart whispering _trust_ had begun to blur. 

They’d given him back his laundered battle robes that morning, with his first meal of the day, and given Ona’la’s warning two days earlier he knew what to expect, and had dressed with the appropriate care. He felt the absence of his lightsaber almost painfully, his palm coming to rest on the place on his hip where it would normally sit every few minutes or so, like a scab he couldn’t help but pick at. 

He stood in the centre of his small cell as they disengaged the forcefield, hands clasped behind his back and his feet at shoulder width apart; he kept his expression blank as Master Dawnstar entered the room, accompanied by the captain of the guard. 

“Please bring your hands around in front of you, and position your wrists at approximately waist height,” Master Dawnstar said coolly. 

Thexan didn’t move. “My waist height?” he asked, just as blandly. “Ortolan waist height? Wookie waist height?” 

“Don’t question the lady, asshole,” said one of the masked Havoc squad soldiers from the door, their voice distorted by the helmet comms. He couldn’t be sure, but he suspected the speaker was Major Hervoz, the rather blunt commander of the elite squad. She’d been another on their list to capture and contain. “Put your fucking hands out.”

“Or what? You’ll lock me in a windowless cell deep underground in hostile territory and parade me about like a trophy of war?” He looked around pointedly, and then stared flatly back at Dawnstar. 

She seemed completely unmoved by his pettiness. “Please bring your hands around in front of you,” she repeated, “and position your wrists-”

“I was being belligerent, not dense. I’m well aware of what you want from me.”

“Then it won’t be too difficult for you to comply, then, will it?”

Incapacitate the Jedi. Take her lightsaber. Force throw the captain back into the hallway and send the troops scattering for cover. Take advantage of the confusion to exit the cell. Use the lightsaber to deflect the blaster fire back at them in the narrow corridor. Take a blaster from one of the incapacitated guards. With the lightsaber and the blaster, storm the halls of the Senate and fight his way to freedom. 

He’d come up against worse scenarios in his training simulations in his childhood. He wasn’t in the peak of health, true, and his opponents were among the most skilled and dangerous in their respective fields, but...

“Your Highness, if you do not comply peacefully, we will be forced to bind you against your will.” Master Dawnstar didn’t even blink as she said it, even though the statement promised the potential for great violence. 

The words were there, on the tip of his tongue- _I’d like to see you try._

But Ona’la’s words were there as well, seared into the inside of his skull like a brand upon his brain. _Just because you refuse to believe in yourself, doesn’t mean that I will do the same thing._

“Your Highness, I will ask you one more time. Please bring your hands around in front of you, and position your wrists at approximately waist height.”

Behind her, he heard the sound of nearly a dozen guns being armed. 

He could see the earnestness in Ona’la’s eyes as if she was right there in front of him. _Because it’s the right thing to do_ , she’d said. He’d only ever done the _right thing_ for one person in his life, and that was Arcann. He couldn’t honestly say he’d done right by his mother, or his sister- only Arcann.

And that had gotten him killed. 

He should have stayed dead.

He stared straight at Master Dawnstar, unblinking and impassive, and brought his hands around in front of him, holding them out for the captain to attach the stun cuffs. 

He could feel, rather than hear, the collective sigh of relief that went up amongst the soldiers in the corridor, although not a one of them moved or disarmed their blasters until the cuffs buzzed to life and Master Dawnstar nodded over her shoulder to them. He didn’t grimace as the electronic bindings adjusted themselves manually until they were flush against his skin, the plasteel cuffs pinching hard on both arms. 

“Come on,” the captain of the guard said, taking hold of him by the upper arm and half-pulling him towards the door, “get a move-”

“ _Don’t touch me_ ,” he snarled, jerking himself out of his grip. It was hardly the first time he’d been manhandled by the guards, but he’d be damned if they dragged him about like a rabid dog on a leash, today of all days. 

The blasters spun around towards him immediately, along with a few wordless shouts, and he sneered at them all. “I am perfectly capable of walking without being _manhandled_ ,” he hissed, drawing himself up to his full height. 

“Stand down,” Dawnstar said, lifting a hand to indicate to the soldiers that all was well. “He can walk unassisted.”

From beneath his ridiculous blue helmet, the captain made a noise of surprise. “But, Master Jedi-” 

“I _said_ , stand _down_ ,” she repeated, a steely glint in her eyes.

For a long, terse moment, the captain seemed like he might stand his ground, but after several painfully long heartbeats, he nodded his head jerkily. “As you say, Master Jedi,” he said, and he stepped aside while gesturing towards the door. Smirking pointedly at him, Thexan all but swaggered to the door, making the most of the opportunity to undermine the authority of the captain. Anything to help unsettle the cohesion of the group. 

No one else touched him as he made his way into the corridor, but their blasters remained trained on him the entire time. The captain and Dawnstar came out of the cell behind him, and the soldiers took that as an unspoken command to fall in around him- the four Havoc squad soldiers surrounded him in a perfect square, with four guardsman before them and four guardsman behind him. The captain himself pride of place at the front of their little parade, and Master Dawnstar ruined the symmetry of the whole affair by coming and standing just slightly behind his left shoulder, and when he glanced back at her she just stared back coolly. 

He hated her so much. 

Not as much as he hated himself, though. 

They marched him up through the halls of the Senate Tower, the stark metal walls slowly giving way to the more sumptuous interiors one would expect from the heart of the Republic. Golden marbled stone, so rich and so vibrant that it almost seemed to glow around them, secluded nooks with decadent couches made of kriin-wood and velvet. Flags from every nation and people in the Republic, a riot of colours, and exquisitely detailed holo busts of the heroes and champions of democracy throughout the ages. He’d been in too much of a daze to pay much attention last time he’d come through these halls- still reeling from the attempt on his life and Ona’la’s immediate drive to protect him- but now he took it all in carefully. 

There’d been simulation programs run in his training sessions that had included complete walk-throughs of important infrastructure- in theory he’d already walked this path a dozen times over during simulated invasion programs. He’d seen the Senate Tower ablaze and under siege, and had left his mark on the foundations of their bloated, inefficient democracy; to see it shining and relatively subdued seemed almost unsettling. 

There was a vague rumble in the distance, a noise that grew louder the closer they drew to the main atrium, and out of the corner of his eye he could see Dawnstar frown slightly. Another set of wide marble stairs and the answer came to him- it was the sound of a crowd, their voices and the shifting of their feet on the stone floor amplified a hundred times over by the arching domed roof of the atrium. 

Of course. Because they couldn’t complete their gleeful humiliation of him without a gawking crowd of onlookers to revel in his disgrace. 

He wanted it to feel like a dream, like some terrible half-formed nightmare, like it had on the _Illustrious_ when Ona’la had come to take him away at last. But it didn’t- he felt the weariness and the frustration and the painful, crushing mortification that came from being reduced to this... this _spectacle_. He missed his brother so desperately and he missed his home and over all of it was the overwhelming sense of self-loathing, to have failed so badly and so completely that his life had come to this. 

He should have stayed dead. At least dead, he was useful, at least then he served a purpose. Now he was nothing, a humiliation and a failure and a problem. 

When they emerged from the depths of the Tower into the main atrium, the waiting crowd exploded. There were holocams and reporters, there were what appeared to be protesters, there were probably thousands of people crammed into the atrium and spilling out from the spiralling hallways. The holocams darted forward en masse, sweeping around him and the guard like a flock of over-eager carrion deathbirds, hounding him and stalking him as his escort continued to lead him up the main staircase, away from the seething crowd and up to the second level. 

Through sheer force of will, he kept his face blank, even though the urge to lash out and send them all scattering for cover under the assault of his rage was extraordinary indeed. 

The second floor was hardly any better, with crowds of onlookers lining the edges of the balcony, leaning out over the great drop in the hope to catch some glimpse of the disgraced prince, the great enemy of their people, the monster in the dark... 

His escort led him into a vaulted hall he’d encountered in some of his training simulations, a sweeping, curved affair with a raised bench on the far wall designed to be filled by figures of varying ranks and offices; not quite a courtroom, so much as a venue for legislative hearings. Which, quite frankly, made it fairly obvious that they had no intention of making this a trial so much as a public debasement. 

There was _so much_ noise, all loud and ringing and overwhelming, and he’d long since relegated it to unimportant; as such he walked in a sort of daze, hearing nothing and registering nothing and going where they prompted him. There were figures already at the bench, and the room was full, just as the atrium and the balconies had been, and there was more noise and more flashing lights and more movement and just _more_.

It felt like drowning, like being trapped in the lurching, wrenching tumble of a wave, unable to find the surface but surrounded by noise and chaos and being spun in a thousand directions at once. 

They led him down the central aisle of the chamber and off to the side, to a single seat in a raised box- not quite at eye level with the bench, because _Izax forfend_ that he might be considered their _equal_. When one of the waiting Senate guards went to reach for his arm to guide him into the seat, he snarled violently at him, causing a surge of paranoia in the energy of the room; as she had in the corridors deep below, Master Dawnstar gestured to the guard to step back, and after a terse moment of considering his options, Thexan begrudgingly sat down, the pitiful wooden gate clacking closed behind him. 

Thexan sat like stone in the seat he had been assigned to, the stun cuffs now so tight around his wrists that his fingers had begun to tingle; he didn’t care. The cuffs themselves were a useless formality, given that he’d endured worse in training sessions as a child; Ona’la knew they would be useless against him, so had she warned her people, and been ignored? Or had she held her tongue, either as a way to humiliate him or as a nod to the secret the two of them shared, implying that she had not explained the full extent of his strengths and talents?

And why was he so concerned about what actions she may or may not have taken in preparation for this greater humiliation? His enduring captivity was not some sly wink from her, some acknowledgment of greater understanding and camaraderie between them- they were enemies, plain and simple. She, so doggedly determined to reach out personally to every suffering soul in the galaxy, and he, the son of the creature that had stalked and imprisoned her, sent out amongst the stars to bring suffering and fear on his behalf. 

_Stop thinking about her for five minutes, by the heart of Scyva._

He hadn’t made an effort to look for her, but he didn’t need to look to know that she wasn’t in the chamber. Of course she wasn’t- her part in this was done, she had handed him off for the accolades and the praise due to her, and that was that. He was the Republic’s problem, not hers, which was probably why they’d made no further effort to restrain him than a pair of high grade stun cuffs. 

There was an unkind voice in his head that felt the need to point out that if this was the worst this Republic could do when it came to restraining their most dangerous enemies, then they deserved to fall at the hands of his father’s armies.

Or, as the case may be, Arcann’s armies. 

He gritted his teeth, swallowing down the bitterness that came with those words. It didn’t matter if the cuffs were naught but an annoyance for him, he deserved such ignobility. He’d failed to die correctly, to give Arcann the safety and security of being their father’s sole heir, so he deserved the humiliation and spectacle of this farcical trial the Republic insisted on holding for him. He’d forced Zakuul into the awkward position of trying to explain his reappearance, and likely destabilized the political climate when things would already be terse while Arcann settled into his place on the throne. 

Arcann had to be aware of the Republic’s claims, because the proclamation decrying him could not have come without his approval. So did Arcann truly not believe he was alive, or worse, was he undermining his hope of ruling uncontended, and destabilizing his entire claim to the throne? Was he still, after everything, a threat to his brother? 

_Should have stayed dead_ , whispered the unkind voice in his head. 

He sat like a stone, staring at the ground, and paid no attention to the seething crowd that packed the Senate chambers, all vying to get a look at the famed Prince dragged before them in chains. 

Animals, all of them. 

If he had even the slightest shred of self preservation left in him, he’d rise up, the cuffs shattering from his wrists simply at a touch of his will. The guards would go flying, buffeted against the walls by the force of his rage, the civilians screaming and shrieking to flee from the wrath of the mad Prince Thexan. 

But he had none, no self preservation left, no desires for himself, no pride. That, at least, had died correctly, on the cold floor of his father’s throne room. 

If only he’d had the decency to die along with it. 

He recognised the woman seated at the centre of the judicial table at the front of the room- Supreme Chancellor Leontyne Saresh. He’d be a fool not to recognise her, given how extensive his lessons were on Republic government figures in the lead up to the war. She looked older than the pictures his tutors had shown him, far more haggard. Her mouth was set in a grim line and there were creases around her eyes that suggested she probably did not smile so much these days. 

Had he put his mind to it, he could have done a much more thorough assessment of her character- it had always been important to his father that they read their opponents right from the outset, tease apart all the fractured lines of their psyche to see how easily they could break. That didn’t matter anymore, of course- his father was dead, and he was supposed to be dead, not dragged before a public court like a common criminal, facing charges of war crimes that could only end in the death penalty. 

It was all a farce, of course. They weren’t going to keep him alive, no matter what foolish hope Ona’la might have clung to and urged upon him _stop thinking about her_. For that, at least, he could grudgingly thank them. There was no point to his continued existence at this point, and living with the overwhelming burden of his failure...

... it was killing him just as surely as the wound to his gut should have. 

There was an eclectic mix of individuals with Saresh, curiously unbiased; he would have expected Saresh to load the deck in her own favour, with the diplomats and ambassadors that currently enjoyed the benefit of being her most trusted lackeys. Commander Malcolm was up there, ostensibly as a representative of the military and their interests, and Grandmaster Shan was up there too. Marcus Trant, the director of the SIS, and another Jedi Council Member, the Barsen’thor- she looked remarkably ill, and he was at least vaguely impressed that she’d made the effort to attend. The remaining four seats were taken by politicians, the only one of whom he recognised was Lady Alauni of Saleucami and current spokeswoman of the Rift Alliance. He didn’t know whether the political landscape had changed so violently during his few months absence that his education was now irrelevant, or whether the infinite reams of data he needed to memorise were starting to slip away from him without the constant repetition of his lessons to keep them in place. 

He wasn’t sure which option he liked least. 

A low chime sounded, and at the renewed interest of the crowd he glanced over his shoulder to see the Senate guards closing the doors to the chamber, carefully pushing aside those who could not fit or who sought to squeeze in at the last minute. It was like a damned circus, a spectacle. They wanted to trot him out and make him beg and glut themselves on his humiliation. 

It almost amused him to know they would be disappointed. 

Almost.

“This hearing is now in session,” Saresh said loudly, her voice ringing clear over the hubbub of the crowd. Thexan gritted his teeth and returned to staring at the floor, lest they take his gaze as an expression of interest in the proceedings. “Let the record show that the bench today is made up of myself, Supreme Chancellor Saresh; joining me is-”

“Your honour.”

The interruption caused a heaving surge of activity in the room, and Thexan felt his blood run cold while his treacherous heart leapt at the sound of _her_ voice. He nearly closed his eyes in dismay, not wanting to acknowledge what was happening, but found himself quite unable to look away from the spectacle that was unfolding. The chattering of the crowd was quickly hushed as a single figure worked her way forward and came to stand before the bench, pushing back the hood that had apparently been sufficient to deter the guards as to her identity and allow her access. He had no doubt that, given this was the manner in which she chose to reveal herself, that she’d been banned from the proceedings. 

He had to wonder exactly what lengths she’d gone to, to make sure that she _could_ get in. 

He wanted to stare at the ground; he wanted to turn to stone again, but instead he gaped at her, glared at her, this _fool_ woman who kept finding reasons to meddle with his desire for death. This stranger, this enemy, who kept insisting that she could find the good in him, like it was simply something he’d misplaced due to carelessness instead of enduring a lifetime of having it forcibly destroyed within him. 

Jedi Master Ona’la stood calmly before the bench, hands clasped behind her back as she waited for Saresh to speak. No, not Jedi Master, _Battlemaster_ , for she was fully garbed in her armour and warrior’s robe, his lightsaber very pointedly strapped to the curve of her hip as if it belonged there. Saresh, for her part, seemed to swing between outright fury and incredulity that anyone would be so foolish as to interrupt before proceedings had even gotten underway. At her side, Satele had covered her face with her hand, and on the other side Jace was shaking his head as if he was trying not to laugh. 

“Battlemaster,” Saresh began finally, once she looked like she had some modicum of control over herself, “we will excuse your lapse of etiquette this once if you return to your seat immediately-”

“This trial must _not_ go ahead,” Ona’la said firmly, her voice as gentle and kind as it always was. She had not yet looked at him, and she seemed unaffected by the buzzing of conversations and the constant flash of holocams from behind her. “You are wasting valuable government and civic resources in a time of war, when our time and our efforts are drastically needed elsewhere while we face the enduring threat of two hostile empires.”

“Master Ona’la, need I remind you that you are _not_ a civic leader, nor are you even on the Jedi Council, a body that is represented by Master Shan and Master Adhi today. As much as your efforts in the war have been appreciated these last few years, your input into how I run a government is not necessary _or_ wanted.”

That should have been all the warning anyone sane needed, but apparently Ona’la was not to be deterred. “And the Jedi have always been a self governing _and_ self policing body,” she said pointedly. “To have this man taken from my care and tried in a civic court undermines the Jedi Order’s ability to sufficiently govern Force users and-”

“This man is a _war criminal_ , Battlemaster, and given that- as I have already stated- there are two of the Council seated in attendance today, your disruptive opinion seems to put you at odds with the very Order you serve.”

She couldn’t argue with that, he was sure of it, she couldn’t possibly think to- he looked over at her again and his heart thudded painfully in his chest as he saw the look on her face.

She was going to argue with that. 

“The pursuit of justice should not be bound up in a race for public opinion and war-time propaganda,” Ona’la said, gesturing to the dozens of holocams buzzing around the room. “We should, at all times, seek justice tempered with compassion, and redemption. Not mockery, or cruelty.”

“Ona’la,” Satele said plaintively, “ _please_. There are better ways to do this.”

Her own mentor had publicly asked her to stop, surely that-

“I take full responsibility for the prisoner,” Ona’la said, and at that there was a shocked intake of breath from the whole court. “His Highness was under my protection until the Republic’s intervention, and I wish for him to be returned to my supervision. Let us not continue with this farce of a trial- we all know very well what he has been accused of and what he is guilty of. Find him guilty, be done with it, and then release him to my care. Do not waste the time and resources of this Republic, when they are better spent in defence of our most vulnerable citizens.”

Thexan could not be entirely certain he was breathing. 

Saresh’s mouth worked several times as if she was trying to speak and no words were coming out. “Master Ona’la, you are in contempt of court, one more word from you and I will have you removed from-”

“It does us no good to succumb to their ways,” Ona’la said, louder now, so that she could be heard over the seething gossip of the crowd behind her. “He is far more valuable alive than dead, and I am willing to place myself in the hands of the court as collateral should I be proved wrong. Release him to my care, and I will see that he works to restore the Republic to it’s former glory, and his knowledge is used to defend our people against any further attempts at conquest by Zakuul.”

It was too much. “ _I object_ ,” he snarled, beginning to rise from his chair and promptly hissing violently as the stun cuffs activated, the buzzing thrum of the electricity sizzling through him as he sat back down heavily. 

Saresh threw her hands in the air in disbelief. “You aren’t _allowed_ to object,” she said incredulously, looking between Ona’la and Thexan. “And this trial isn’t even properly called to order yet for you to object in the _first_ place.”

“Release Prince Thexan into my care, and I pledge to take full responsibility for his crimes and carry the burden of any sentence this court hands down, should he evade my supervision or reach a point where he is unable to serve in a manner that satisfies this court,” Ona’la said calmly, as if he hadn’t just thrown things further into disarray by trying to talk in his own defence. 

“Why would you _do_ that?” Saresh asked, utter frustration and disbelief warring together on her face. 

Ona’la did not even hesitate. “The Force lead me to him, and I place my faith in the Force,” she said. “If it is my purpose to find the good in him, I will not falter from that path.”

“And how do you know the _Force_ wasn’t just leading you to him so that he could be properly tried for his crimes?” Lady Alauni on the bench asked sarcastically. Her emphasis on certain words made it very clear that she had no respect for Ona’la’s proclamation of faith.

“I have only what the Force has placed in my heart,” she said, unfazed by her criticism. “A belief that all of us have the potential for great good, and a belief that our Republic was founded on the very idea that people deserve a chance to experience freedom and democracy.”

“ _I object_ ,” Thexan said again, not bothering to rise from his seat; he gritted his teeth when the stun cuffs sparked to life anyway, the pain of the electricity surging up his arms and into his chest. 

“Again, your Highness, you are not _allowed_ to object to the proceedings.”

“This is definitely not working,” Commander Malcolm said, and there was very distinctly an ‘ _I told you so_ ’ laced through his words. “I’m in favour of withdrawing from the public chambers until tempers are a little more settled.”

“What I’m suggesting is not a difficult proposition,” Ona’la said, still defiant in the face of an almost united opposition. “And more so, the rights of Prince Thexan to legal counsel and representation- as outlined in the Convention of Civilized Systems, Section 24-D, on the rights of an individual- have been grossly ignored and any attempts to draw attention to this lapse have been ignored. Furthermore, Section 1138 of the Galactic Republic Charter on the treatment of prisoners of war, specifies that-”

“I move for a recess,” Master Adhi said, her first words since the whole debacle had begun. “I’m afraid I’m feeling rather light-headed, I think it would do me well to take my leave from the chamber for a half hour or so.”

The excitement and seething chatter in the room quite audibly deflated, and Thexan heard a few disappointed grumbles over the noise. He was surprised he could hear anything over the wild thunder of his heart in his ears, and he was finding it quite difficult to breathe.

_Just because you refuse to believe in yourself, doesn’t mean that I will do the same thing._

He’d given her nothing but cruelty and suspicion and rudeness, and she _still_ responded by declaring herself his protector in front of the entire Republic. 

He didn’t understand.

He couldn’t breathe. 

He could hear the argument continuing, but the voices were muted, fading into the distance; his scar was burning, his muscles locked up in a spasm so painful that his vision was beginning to go dark at the edges. The buzz of the stun cuffs felt wrong, almost like it was merely the tingle of a limb he’d sat on for too long, and if it weren’t for the faint echo of pain in his scar as the electricity pulsed through him, he wouldn’t have realised he’d triggered them again at all. 

“ _Thexan_.”

Through the panic that had him by the throat, he heard his name. And more importantly, he knew it was _her_ calling him, and that made it a little easier to claw his way out of the blurry darkness towards her.

It was hard; oh, stars, it hurt so much, and he couldn’t breathe, and he couldn’t focus, and he couldn’t breathe, and-

“Shhh.” Her touch, her hand on his cheek, jolted him out of the worst of it. “It’s alright Thexan, just breathe. You can do it, breathe with me now- in and out, in and out.” 

His vision cleared a little, enough that he was able to make out her face in front of him; it _hurt_ to breathe, it hurt _so much_ , and the first attempt was some kind of shuddering gasp, as if he was trying to breathe underwater. 

“You’ve nearly got it,” she urged him, and he felt her thumb brushing over his cheek. “That’s it, in and out, just like that, you can do it. Just breathe with me, Thexan.”

The next breath came easier, and then another followed, and each one was a little less painful than the one before it, a little easier to remember the way his muscles worked and how everything moved together, and Ona’la was there for each one, praising him quietly and encouraging him to keep going. When the worst of it had passed, when the panic in his veins had subsided, she was still there, an anchor in a storm and her eyes full of such earnest concern that if he weren’t so winded from the panic attack, it might have left him breathless. 

And it was then he noticed that there was a lightsaber held very close to her throat, the blade humming quietly in the silence of the room. 

... silence?

“Battlemaster, I asked you to step away from the prisoner.” He recognised the speaker as Master Dawnstar, her voice pitched low and dangerous. Tearing his gaze away from Ona’la, he found Dawnstar at her side, her double-bladed saber flickering ominously against Ona’la’s skin. “Please, don’t make this any harder than it needs to be.”

The room was empty of casual observers, but he could hear the riot of noise in the halls outside that suggested they hadn’t gone far. All of the Senate Guards in attendance had their weapons out, and the members of Havoc Squad were lined up in a square formation around his box seat, all with their guns armed. 

He risked looking around further- there were chairs upended, as if the room had been cleared in a hurry, and there were... he blinked. There were at least a dozen holocams on the floor, some of them smashed and completely beyond salvageable; as he watched, one of them tried to lift listlessly off the floor, the hover repulsors trying valiantly to launch it into the air, before it sparked and fell lifeless against the stone again. 

“Thexan.” Ona’la’s voice drew him back to her, and her expression was solemn as she leaned over him. She’d climbed half up the front of the box to get to him, one hand holding tight to the edge to maintain her balance while she cradled his cheek with her other hand. “Are you alright?”

His heart was hammering so hard in his chest that it was painful, and his scar burned, and he felt light-headed, but... he was breathing. He was calmer. 

He nodded jerkily, just once. 

“Master Ona’la, please step-”

“I requested legal counsel for this man, and was ignored,” Ona’la said, turning directly towards the humming blade that Dawnstar held at her throat. “I requested he undergo a psychiatric assessment, to get some idea of the trauma he has endured while under Vitiate’s control-”

“Ona’la, _enough_ ,” Satele said, one of the few people still seated at the bench. 

“Master Dawnstar offered mercy to Syo Bakarn despite the years he spent as the unwitting host of the First Son,” Ona’la countered. “There are millions of deaths which he could be considered accountable for, including the entirety of the invasion of Corellia, but she still did not hesitate to offer him a chance at redemption and healing.”

“Master Syo had proven himself for decades as a Jedi and a mentor,” Dawnstar said, but there was a small frown on her face, as if she was beginning to doubt the veracity of her argument. She hesitated before taking a step backwards, removing her lightsaber from such close proximity to Ona’la’s throat and deactivating it.

“And may very well have spent the entirety of those decades in service to the Emperor.” Ona’la was defiant and unstoppable, determined to counter everything they threw at her. For _him_. She was fighting for _him_. “Prince Thexan was born under his control and influence, and was at no point given the opportunity to defy him- he was used and abused by Vitiate, trained to be a weapon-”

“He is responsible for the deaths of nearly forty million Republic citizens, and the infrastructure costs of the invasion come to at least-”

“ _I_ am responsible for the deaths of at least _five hundred million_ Republic citizens,” Ona’la said bluntly. “Many of which I was held accountable for in this very chamber when the Senate demanded an inquiry into the loss of Uphrades and the subsequent Coruscant food shortages and riots that followed in the months after. _Millions_ of refugees and vulnerable citizens starved to death as a result of my incompetence. I am responsible for the complete destruction of at least two planets, and my continued failure to deal with Vitiate led to this situation in the first place. If anything, I am _more_ culpable than Prince Thexan-”

“Sorry to interrupt,” Commander Malcolm said, all eyes in the chamber swinging to him as he clicked rapidly through a datapad in his hand, “but we have a new problem.”

Saresh threw her hands in the air in frustration. “Of _course_ we do,” she said. 

Malcolm keyed a few more things into the datapad, and then a moment later a figure appeared projected in the centre of the room.

Thexan couldn’t help the small noise that escaped him at the sight of his brother. 

“-warning to all citizens of the Galactic Republic,” Arcann was saying, clearly halfway through his address. He stood at ease, his hands clasped comfortably behind his back with his face all but unreadable thanks to his mask. Thexan could read him, though- he could see the confidence in his shoulders, the tension he was still carrying in his neck from the new weight of the robotic arm, the arrogance and the barely veiled contempt. 

He missed him so _much_. 

“The continued defiance of your Senate and the contempt your leaders have for the loss of our dear brother and father, have left us no further option but to pursue retribution against them. Just as the self appointed Sith _Empire_ will face justice for the actions of their Dark Council members in the murder of our beloved Immortal Emperor, so too will the Republic face our wrath for this mockery of justice they enact with a pretender in place of our departed Prince.”

“It’s a declaration of war,” someone said softly, their voice incredulous and horrified. 

“We do not forgive easily,” Arcann continued, “and in the coming months, remember that this was brought upon you by the actions of your own leaders, who chose their own pride over any course of civility.”

“Call an emergency session of the Senate,” Saresh barked to the captain of the guard; when he hesitated, she slammed her hand down on the bench. “ _Now!”_

Even with the Republic perched on the brink of war, Ona’la would not be dissuaded. “What about Thexan?” 

“Now is _not_ the time, Battlemaster!”

“Zakuul will not be defied,” Arcann finished, his single unmasked eye glittering malevolently over the holo. Thexan could almost believe he was looking straight at him. “We will have our vengeance.”

And then the signal disconnected.

Arcann had declared him an imposter, and Ona’la had stood unflinching with a lightsaber at her throat just to make sure he was safe. 

His entire world was _wrong_. 

“You do not have the time or the resources to put him on trial properly,” Ona’la continued, despite the fact that everyone was clearly ignoring her. “You do not have the resources to see him properly imprisoned either. Not in a time of war.”

“She’s right,” Master Dawnstar said abruptly, and that was enough to have everyone pause for a moment. “We can’t do it. With Belsavis compromised and Tython rebuilding, and Zakuul approaching on one side while the Empire waits on the other, we can’t let ourselves be distracted. The Battlemaster is the best placed to adequately contain and supervise his Highness.”

If Thexan was stunned by the sudden change of heart from Dawnstar, it was nothing compared to how surprised Ona’la looked. But she covered it quickly- if he hadn’t been watching her, he would have missed it- and she smiled at the other woman. “Thank you, Master Dawnstar.”

“Don’t thank me,” she said, her expression so severe that it almost verged on cold. “You of all people should know what it will do to you, tying yourself to yet another piece of Vitiate’s legacy.”

“Regardless, I appreciate your faith in me.”

Saresh was already halfway up the aisle towards the door, and she turned and pointed forcefully in their direction. “There _will_ be a trial when there are not more pressing issues on hand,” she said. And then she was gone, sweeping out of the chamber and into the packed corridor, barking instructions as she left. 

For a moment, Ona’la seemed frozen- she still had her hand on him, on his arm, and he could feel the tension in her-

“Ladies.” Grandmaster Shan came to a stop in front of the two Jedi Masters, her expression extremely disapproving. “We need to call an emergency Council meeting- Ona’la, you’ll be needed too. You can take one of the provisional seats for the moment.”

“And what about Thexan?” Ona’la asked, apparently unconcerned that she’d been very abruptly appointed to the one of the highest seats of office in the entirety of the Republic. Battlemaster _and_ Jedi Council member. She was literally only second to Satele now. 

“Well, given that you appear to have become his guardian for the time being, you’d best bring him with you- I doubt that Saresh will approve of you letting him out of your sight the instant he’s left in your care.”

And she turned back to him, her eyes shining with such joy and relief that he felt it shudder all the way through him. “You’re safe for now, Thexan,” she said. She held out her hand to him. “Follow me.”


	15. Chapter 15

_Csilla, Chiss Space, The Unknown Regions_

“Attention, unidentified craft.”

The greeting was broadcast first in Cheunh and then in Basic, within seconds of them dropping out of hyperspace. Even having been expecting it, Thessa felt her anxiety spike at the sound of the Csaplar accent. “You are entering the sovereign space of the Chiss Ascendancy. You have not received clearance to do so. Please identify yourself immediately or your vessel will be destroyed.”

From where she sat at the navigator’s station, Lana leaned forward at the console, her mouth opening to respond, but Thessa shushed her fiercely and pressed the button on her own chair. “This is an unregistered vessel,” she began, speaking only in Cheunh. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Lana’s expression flicker briefly with irritation at her using a tongue she was not fluent in, but apologies would have to come later. “We are operating in the service of Sith Intelligence-”

“The Chiss-Imperial Concordance forbids Imperial craft from operating in Chiss sovereign space.”

A light began to flare angrily on the dash, and Lana lurched forward. “They’ve got a missile lock on us,” she said in alarm, her fingers flying over the console as she sought to break the targeting solution. “What did you _say_ to them?”

Thessa closed her eyes briefly before sitting up straighter. “This is Aranth’ess’anrokini,” she said more firmly. “I am the captain of this vessel, and a citizen of the Ascendancy.”

The red light continued to flash warningly on the dash, and from behind her, Thake came wandering in from the hallway without a care in the world. He slumped down in the last unused chair in the cockpit, legs hanging over the arm of the chair, and pressed his thumb heavily into one of the buttons. “This is Aranth’ake’csapla of the Chiss Expansionary Defense Force,” he drawled in Cheunh. “Clearance code xesh-three-three-osk-nine-dorn-eight, clearance level four, Intelligence and Reconnaissance Division.”

There was a moment of silence, and then the comms crackled again as the warning light stilled. “Please proceed to Csilla sector forty-nine, landing bay five,” the voice said again, still in Cheunh. Lana looked exceedingly frustrated, and the disappearance of the missile lock did not seem to soothe her. “If you attempt to divert from this path, your escort has the authority to destroy you.”

Thessa leaned forward and peered out the curved plastiglass of the windscreen; two Clawcraft fighters decloaked on either side of the Phantom, the curved arms of the guns looking far too much like their namesake in the light reflected off the hull of their ship.

Lana quite visibly wiped her palms on her trousers, her hands shaking ever so slightly. “Well then,” she said flatly. “I’m glad to see the two of you are so highly thought of at home.”

Thake made a disparaging noise. “This is _not_ home,” he said, something bitter in his voice.

As the pale blue sphere of Csilla grew larger before them, Thessa couldn’t help but agree.

The Clawcraft fighters easily kept pace with them all the way down through the atmosphere; there was a storm rolling over the surface, easily a couple of hundreds klicks across, and sector forty-nine was perched right on the edge of the dubious safe zone. The moment they broke through the clouds they were buffeted by the strong winds, enough that there were worrisome groaning noises from the strain upon the hull. Visibility was all but non-existent, the Clawcrafts swallowed up by the howling whiteness outside. Thake looked nothing but bored, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair, while Lana looked remarkably unsettled by the immense force of the storm, her knuckles white where she gripped the console and stared out into the roiling grey.

“I thought you served on Hoth, during the war,” Thessa said, for a way to distract her. “Surely you would be used to weather such as this.”

“I made a point not to _fly_ in it,” Lana said, her voice strained. The temperature in the ship had dropped rather noticeably already, and Thessa keyed in a new set of commands to the shields to compensate, boosting the heat in the air filtration system while she was at it. The briskness of the cold didn’t bother her, and she knew it wouldn’t bother Thake, but sub-zero temperatures were not ideal for humans, she’d found. “It’s quite a different experience to be safely ensconced in an underground Imperial bunker when a storm rolls in.”

“It’s very deliberately for show,” Thake drawled, sounding far more sullen than usual.

“What, the storm?”

“ _No_ ,” he said irritably. “Making us fly through it. They could have sent us to the next hemisphere over, but forcing us to fly into the storm is a very deliberate gesture. We’re not going to be facing a warm welcome.”

Lana stared at him flatly. “ _Really_ ,” she said tonelessly. “The missile lock didn’t give me that impression _at all_.”

“Hmm,” he said, just as flatly, “not a very good Intelligence Minister then, are you?”

“Please stop,” Thessa said wearily, her head in her hands. “This is going to be difficult enough already without us bickering amongst ourselves.”

“Shouldn’t you be concentrating on steering rather than moping at us?”

“They have us in range of the guidance lock already,” she said pointedly. “Sector forty-nine is not a civilian sector- it’s military only. They’ll pull us in whether we want to go or not.”

“Well that’s remarkably ominous,” Lana said, sitting back stiffly in her chair, her arms crossed in a rather hostile fashion. “Your people don’t seem to be particularly pleased to see either of you.”

Thessa looked over at Thake, but he was very pointedly staring out the window instead.

There were crosswinds to battle as they came in for their landing approach, some of the gusts buffeting their ship measuring at well over a hundred kilometers an hour. It was not the worst weather one could expect on the surface of Csilla, but it certainly didn’t make for a pleasant descent. Lana looked positively green by the time Thessa spotted the lights on the landing field, navigating them carefully down into the sunken bay and out of the worst of the wind. It was still howling overhead, sweeping over the top of the ship and making it rock back and forth on the stronger gusts, but they were on solid land, for the first time in weeks.

“Attention Imperial vessel.” The address was once again in Cheunh, rather than Basic, and Lana let out a noise of frustration. “Please account for all current passengers aboard your craft.”

Glancing at Thake to make sure he had no intention of interrupting her, Thessa leaned forward over the intercom. “Aranth’ess’anrokini, assigned to Sith Intelligence as a part of Operation: Forbelean. Aranth’ake’csapla, independent operative for the Chiss Expansionary Defense Force. Sith Lord Lana Beniko, Minister for-”

“We have scanned your vessel. The other occupants are of no interest to us. They are to remain aboard upon pain of death.”

Thake chuckled darkly, and Thessa shot him a warning glare. “And the three occupants we listed-”

“Are required to disembark slowly, with no weapons, and no equipment that can be used in a manner to record or transmit information. An armed escort will meet you in your hangar bay.”

There was a very pointed click as the line disconnected, and then they were alone but for the faint howling of the winds, and the dim glow of the hangar bay lights beyond the swirling snow. After a moment, Lana cleared her throat.

“Well then,” she said brusquely, her tone clearly annoyed, “I gather everything is going swimmingly then?”

Thessa sighed. “We three have been given permission to disembark, but only under armed guard. Presumably we will be subjected to a brief search and scan, as per quarantine procedures, and then we will be escorted to... whoever is currently in charge of the sector.”

“Someone who’ll want to yell a _lot_ ,” Thake said grandly, as if it was a joyous announcement. He lurched to his feet with some kind of uncanny grace and stalked out of the cockpit like an oversized carrion bird, all hunched shoulders and clenched fists and radiating hostility.

“I am not comfortable with this situation, Watcher One,” Lana said, and Thessa hide her wince at the sound of her new title. “I cannot help but feel I am going in remarkably blind.”

Thessa offered her a tired smile. “Well, isn’t it lucky you’ve got a Watcher to be your eyes for you,” she quipped, rising from her own seat as the engines began to settle. “You’d best ready yourself, they won’t take kindly to tardiness.”

She excused herself before she could be drawn into further conversation with the Sith woman, because she could almost feel the immense curiosity Lana was holding back and the dozens of questions she had to be harbouring regarding their cold welcome and Thessa and Thake’s reluctance to return to their home planet.

“What do you mean I can’t leave the fucking ship?” she could hear Kaliyo ask from further down towards the cargo bay. “What if I wanted to buy a fucking souvenir? Don’t you Chiss shits do tacky snow globes or something?”

She didn’t wait to hear what answer Thake may or may not have given her, instead sliding into her own quarters at the front of the ship and going straight to her own wall locker.

At the back of the locker was an item of clothing that she had not touched since leaving the Ascendancy so many years ago; her hands were shaking slightly as she pulled it out, smoothing over the creases as she lay it down on the unmade bed. The uniform was sharply black, far more so than any Imperial officer’s uniform she’d ever encountered, and the only elaboration to it was a set of silver bars resting on the collar, and the deep burgundy red of the shoulder pads.

Otherwise there was nothing else, no gaudy panels and belts like so many officers in the Empire seemed to enjoy, no medals or decorations. Just stark, infinite black, a reminder of who she was and where she’d come from.

She didn’t want to wear it.

“Your aura is subdued, love,” Vector’s voice came from behind her, and she bowed her head at the gentle touch of his hand in the small of her back. “You need not face this alone- we are with you, in whatever capacity you would have of us.”

The tears, which were never far away to begin with on any given day, pricked at her eyes. “I know that,” she whispered, her fingers brushing over the uniform. “You know I am grateful for all of the support you give me, right?”

“We are grateful for every day that we are blessed to share with you, love,” he said quietly. “We do not find it a hardship, as you suspect.”

He always got right to the crux of the matter- he never danced around an issue. She loved him for that. “Surely you must-” She broke off when the tears spilled over and her voice cracked, putting a hand up to her mouth while she fought for control. His hand ran soothingly up and down her back, undemanding and gentle. It grounded her in the moment. “Surely you must have regrets for what we have lost.”

His hands were gentle as he turned her to face him, his fingers beneath her chin as he lifted her face; his eyes were as peculiarly unreadable as hers were, but she liked to think over the last few years that she had found the subtle patterns in his expressions. “You are our dear love,” he said, “and we would gladly follow you anywhere, should you but ask it.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she whispered, her fingers finding the front of his tunic and twisting themselves up in the fabric. “I don’t know why I’m working with Kothe, I don’t know why I helped to save a Jedi, I don’t know why I suggested any of this in the first place-”

“Shhh, love.” He put his hands over hers, his thumbs rubbing slowly back and forth over her wrists. “There will be time for questions, and self reflection. We will assist you with whatever you need.”

Thessa scrunched her face up against the storm of weeping that wanted to break out of her. “If they take action against my house, I don’t...” She bit her lip until she was marginally more under control. “I don’t know what will happen to our daughter.”

He reached up and tucked an errant strand of her hair back off of her face; she was well overdue to trim it, and she probably looked remarkably unkempt for the severity of the occasion, but she didn’t have the energy to commit herself to fixing it now. “We agreed when you said that the best place for her was away from the war,” he said quietly. “And although we miss her, we do not think that decision was incorrect. She has been safe, and loved, amongst your people.”

“That might change-”

“If the outcome of your visit today changes her living situation, then we will find a way to accommodate such changes,” he said. “Our daughter will be safe- of this, you have our most sincere promise.”

She hiccupped on a sob. “I love you,” she whispered.

His smile was as gentle as his hands. “We know,” he said, just as quietly, pressing his forehead briefly to hers. “We love you too.”

She dressed quickly once he left the room, her fingers fumbling on a few of the clasps after years of being accustomed to the Imperial uniforms. The fabric was far thicker, not quite so starched and stiff, and designed specifically with the climate of Csilla in mind. Her boots were like polished obsidian, and the figure-hugging black of the trousers and the officer’s jacket made her feel far more ominous and threatening than any of the disguises or uniforms she’d ever worn in Intelligence.

Not that she needed the reminder, but it was easier to remember why she’d been so eager to leave the Ascendancy when she put these clothes back on. She could feel the weight of them, like the weight of the past settling on her shoulders.

There was nothing else for it, of course- she’d warned Lord Beniko against tarrying, so she could hardly excuse the same behaviour in herself. Taking a deep breath, she let herself out of her room and made her way down to the docking port, where the others were already waiting for their clearance to disembark.

Thake, she could tell, was intensely worked up, his hands clenching and unclenching into fists at his side, and every so often reaching for his belt as if he meant to grab at his vibroknife. His hair was slicked back from his face in a more familiar chiss style than he normally wore, and his uniform, like hers, was dauntingly black.

Unlike hers, his did not have a speck of colour on it- no braiding, no bars, no signs of office.

If she didn’t like the reminder of her own shortcomings, she liked seeing his even less.

“You look different in black,” Kaliyo drawled, leaning against the bulkhead. “Kinda like it.”

Thake just scowled and looked away, his jaw tense.

“He doesn’t like it,” Thessa said quietly from the other side of the hallway, adjusting the cuffs on her own black uniform.

“Did I fucking ask for your opinion, sunshine? I said _I_ liked it.”

“Shut the fuck up, Kaliyo,” Thake snapped, stalking down the hallway towards the sleeping quarters; he disappeared around the corner, and then after a heartbeat or two came stalking back again, consumed with restless, nervous energy as he moved down the ramp to the docking port. He kept his back to them all.

“The uniform is a sign of our rank within the Ascendancy,” Thessa tried again, hoping to explain it for his sake, if nothing else.

“Oh fuck, really? The uniform you’re wearing, that uniform right there, that’s a sign of rank? Gee, Ma, I never heard of anyone using uniforms before to show off rank and shit like that.”

Lana came out of the back crew quarters, tugging on her gloves as she came and moved up next to Thessa. “You are utterly insufferable,” she said to Kaliyo as she passed, the corner of her lip turned up disdainfully.

Kaliyo winked at the back of her head.

The docking port was very abruptly unsealed from outside of the ship, the pressure dropping enough for all of them to wince and put their hands up to their ears; the sound of the wind immediately increased, the howling now accompanied by a whistle as the storm tried to slither into the slowly opening door.

Thake was already moving down the ramp as it settled on the snow covered tarmac, and a dozen Chiss commandos fanned out from the shadows, blasters and vibrostaffs and shield gauntlets at the ready. Their armour was black as pitch, just like Thessa and Thake’s uniforms, with the sole exception being the blue and white stripes adorning their helmets and left shoulders.

One of them stepped closer to the ramp than the others, blaster held at the ready. “Aranth’ess’anrokini, Aranth’ake’csapla, and Sith Lord Beniko may disembark,” they shouted over the storm, “all others must remain aboard upon pain of death.”

“What if we like pain?” Kaliyo yelled down the ramp.

Thake turned to her with a wordless snarl, so tense that the muscles in his neck were standing out in sharp relief. She didn’t say anything in response to the threat, merely crossed her arms and leaned back out of sight of the guns.

“You have five seconds to comply.”

“Come on then,” Lana said sharply, gesturing to the two of them to follow her. Thessa had been about to say that it was probably better for her to take the lead, given that the insistence on using Cheunh only over the comms was fairly indicative of their stance towards outsiders at the moment, but...

There was nothing else for it but to follow.

Lana stood haughtily at the base of the ramp, projecting every inch the powerful sith used to being obeyed instantly. “The hostility of this greeting is unacceptable,” she called over the howling of the wind, her cape whipping angrily behind her. Thessa knew it was all posturing, a part of the ugly dance of fragile diplomacy, but it still made her wince. She much preferred letting Vector act as her diplomatic voice than trying to do it herself. “As a Lord of the Sith, under agreement with the Chiss-Imperial Concordance, we are-”

“You have violated the sovereign airspace of the Ascendancy,” the apparent leader of the group called again. “And you come in the company of two known seditionists who have betrayed the Chiss people with their disloyalty.”

“The two individuals in my company have acted far beyond the call of duty in order to save the greater galaxy from the actions of an immortal tyrant- _including_ the people of the Chiss Ascendancy.” She didn’t even flinch at the accusations, merely leaping aggressively to their defence. If Thessa wasn’t nervous enough to feel ill, she would have been touched at the gesture.

“It is not for you to determine whether or not their actions are acceptable, Sith.”

Lana raised her chin, her eyes as cold as the storm that raged overhead. “And neither is it yours, unless the Ascendancy treats it’s leaders so poorly as to expect them to serve as mere customs officers for every arriving vessel. Take me to someone whose opinion I am more inclined to consider worthy of my time.”

For a moment, there was nothing but the wild howling of the wind, and Thessa was certain that they would have gambled everything for naught- that they would open fire, or force them back onto the ship, or take them prisoner.

But then the one who had spoken lowered their gun every so slightly, and nodded brusquely. “This way, if you please.”

As they turned to lead them towards the hangar bay doors with half of the commandos peeling off with them, they snapped a quick “Make sure that no one else leaves the vessel- destroy it if necessary,” to the remaining guards.

A reminder of just how unwelcome she was at home.

The halls beyond the hangar were remarkably similar to what one might expect on an ice planet, and certainly not much different to Hoth- metal panels embedded in the floor and walls and ceiling, dim lighting... at least there was no snow piled against the walls haphazardly, no visible signs of the weather outside but for the chill in the air that made Lana’s breath curl from her mouth like steam.

If anything, it made her look more intimidating, and Thessa looked away.

Their escort led them to a wide elevator, the sort that seemed more likely to carry freight than passengers- which, she supposed, was somewhat accurate, given that they were in a military sector rather than anything intended for guest or pedestrian access. Lana cut quite the figure as the disdainful Sith Lord, turning her nose up at their accommodations, and Thessa only hoped it was all part of her performance and not a genuine distaste for her home. She would have explained it if it were safe, but she doubted their escort would allow her to prattle on like a tour guide.

The elevator descended slowly, to give their ears time to adjust to the rising pressure, and not a word was spoken in that time. When they finally arrived on the necessary level almost ten minutes later, they were ushered out into the hall beyond and shepherded onto a hover tram.

“Where are you taking us?” Lana asked coldly.

They didn’t answer her, and the tram lurched forward and out- into the halls of Csaplar.

_Home._

It was easy to lie to herself and force herself to forget how beautiful home was, when she was certain most of the time she would never see _home_ again. But _stars above_ , there was nothing as beautiful as the infinite halls of Csaplar, buried deep beneath the blue ice of the glaciers. More than a thousand years had given their people plenty of time to turn their underground lairs- once nothing more than a desperate attempt to flee from the impending Ice Age sweeping across the planet- into a thing of remarkable craftsmanship and design, integrating metal and stone and ice together in an artisan’s vision that made Hoth look like the pit of squalor that it was.

Each of the main boulevards would easily allow six speeders abreast to travel in comfort, and in the centre of each were the pedestrian tram shuttles, elegant hover carriers that ferried the citizens of Csilla from one sector to the other in comfort without risking journeying to the surface. The rough stone had been polished until it shone, the jet black of the bedrock picked through with veins of minerals that glimmered in the light. The arched ceilings were bare ice, exquisitely carved in cascading fractal patterns that were hypnotizingly pleasing to the eye.

The walls of the cavernous halls were similarly decorated, with huge inset metal panels delicately carved to depict abstract moments in Csilla’s history and philosophy, embedded in the dark stone beneath the glaciers. And rather than rely on electronic lighting, which had a tendency to be unreliable given the extreme cold and the unpredictable weather on the surface, Csaplar’s streets were awash with strikingly blue bioluminescent light that came from mass cultivated fungal clusters that were not dissimilar in appearance to a crystalline structure. Small niches in the roof and walls provided a home for these fungi, the small crystal heart glowing brightly against the ice and the stone while the creeping tendrils of the roots crept slowly across the surface seeking sustenance.

And it was cold- oh, _stars_ , it was so beautifully blessedly _cold_. Her skin did not feel slick with the clamminess that came from artificial air systems, always trying to set them a few degrees cooler than the rest of the crew were comfortable with and still finding it too warm. The cold was so deep, so immense, and she breathed deeply as the shuttle carried them deeper into the city.

She didn’t even mind the stares as they passed, because there was so much painful familiarity in being surrounded by people like her, so wonderful to feel mundane instead of like an oddity.

For a moment, it almost overrode her intense paranoia about what was about to happen to them.

Almost.

“By the Force,” she heard Lana whisper, as the grand plaza opened up before them.

She couldn’t say she blamed her- the area was at least as long as a capital ship, easily, and far taller than one. The ship they’d most recently docked with all those months ago, the _Stygian Wrath_ , could easily have fit into the space carved into the bedrock. There were fountains, bubbling with substances that stayed in a liquid form even despite the deep, unending cold, and in honour of the Ruling Families, each fountain was tinted with a muted colour, making a very bright and colourful change after the blue and black and white of the stone and ice halls of Csaplar.

There were terraces carved into the bedrock for the offices of the various government bureaucrats needed to run an empire, cascading down towards the open plaza, and there were statues of great figures throughout their history carved from exquisite blue ice, standing tall atop their pedestals along the great avenue.

And at the far end of the plaza was a magnificent edifice of dark stone, stark and daunting against the blue of the ice.

“Very few outsiders are afforded the opportunity to see this,” Thessa said quietly, so as not to provoke their escort to hush them. “This is the House Palace, our seat of government.”

“It’s quite impressive,” Lana said, apparently recognizing the need for quiet and keeping her voice pitched low.

“It is a temple built to worship bureaucratic incompetence and self-congratulatory elitism,” Thake said loudly.

One of their escorts promptly turned around and swung the butt of their blaster rifle at him; it connected just below the ribs, and Thake went down to one knee, grunting in pain at the impact. “Your dissent will be noted to the Defense Hierarchy,” the guard said sharply, grasping him by the elbow and dragging him back to his feet. He shoved him back into place beside Lana and Thessa, and Thake sneered at him, but held his tongue.

The tram came to a stop before one of the wings of the Palace, not quite in front of the grand sweeping staircase that led up to the daunting front doors (which were both foolishly and impressively carved from solid granite), and their escort all but dragged them from the platform and towards the far less notable doors before them. The only one they dared not touch was Lana, who disembarked unassisted and with a rather noticeable space around her where the guards apparently did not want to draw closer.

It had been many years since Thessa had had reason to walk the halls of the House Palace- not since she had been deployed to Imperial Intelligence in the first place- and it sent a chill up her spine now as it did then. But then, younger and more foolish, she’d shivered for the thought of adventure and intrigue in the stars beyond the Ascendancy, excited for what was to come. Now she felt only cold and bereft, hollowed out by forces beyond her control and used and abused by years of betrayal and manipulation.

The walls were polished stone, black and glimmering, and it felt like walking in a mausoleum. She felt like she was walking towards her own execution.

There were holographic displays against the walls, celebrations of particular laws and edicts, acknowledgements of the scientific and military force of the Ascendancy. It was so prideful and arrogant, so disdainful of others.

Thessa felt like an alien walking in the halls of her own city.

Their escort finally led them to a room at the far end of one of the hallways, the door flanked by flags of the Expeditionary Defense Force. It had been years since she had made an effort to stay abreast of the political climate of home, but she could guess at perhaps a half dozen individuals who might be waiting for them on the other side of the door.

The lead commando entered, and the rest of the escort nudged them through to follow. There was a single individual inside, a man dressed entirely in white, his head bent over a datapad as he worked at his desk. Or rather, Thessa got the impression he was not working at all, but merely putting up the pretense of it for his audience.

“The trespassers for you, sir,” the lead commando said in Cheunh, one hand clenched into a fist over their chest as they bowed sharply.

The man in white looked up slowly, as if uninterested in their arrival. “Thank you,” he said mildly, nodding briefly to them. “That will be all.”

“Sir.”

The soldiers filed out, leaving them alone with the man in white. With a sigh, he pushed up from his desk, smoothing his hands over his uniform as he came around the front of the furniture to stand before them, assessing them carefully. He did not speak.

“Who are you?” Lana asked coldly, not bothering with pleasantries. Clearly she’d assessed the situation to be far beyond the need for such things, and was opting to press onwards with the persona of the impatient and untouchable Sith Lord.

The man before them, his uniform stark white but for the silver bars at his collar, smiled thinly, the most minimal effort available to him. “I am Prard’reni’karepp,” he said, his words polite if not warm. “But, in recognition of your difficulty in parsing our tongue, you may call me Drenik.”

Thessa winced, hoping Lana wouldn’t notice it for the insult it was- only to feel her heart sink when she saw Lana stiffen in anger.

Lana smiled in response, just as thin-lipped and disingenuous as his had been. “Drenik, is it?” she said, very pointedly mispronouncing it. “And who are you, that I should care?”

“As crude and ignorant as I would expect of a human,” he said, apparently unfazed by her attitude. “If you had any knowledge of how our society functions, my name alone would have been enough for you to determine who it was you were speaking to, not to mention-”

“He’s an Admiral,” Thake said bluntly, cutting him off. “And he’s a giant twat.”

“Does an Admiral speak on behalf of the government?” Lana asked coldly.

“Does a _magician_ speak on behalf of yours, Lord Beniko?” Drenik asked, just as icily. Drenik’s eyes glittered malevolently even as his smile stayed in place; his head turned ever so slightly to face Thake instead of Lana. “Aranth’ake’csapla,” he said, almost fondly. It sent a shiver down Thessa’s spine to hear.

“That is not my name any longer.”

“Indeed?” He had switched to Cheunh, a deliberate insult to Lana. “It is not often we find ourselves in the company of a disgraced Syndic- most are sensible enough to know they are not welcome in the halls of Naporar.”

“We are not _on_ Naporar,” Thake said with a snarl, his usual attempt at disdainful bitterness falling a bit short of the mark this time.

“We are not,” Drenik said with a tight smile. “How fortunate for you, Syndic.”

“ _Assistant_ Syndic,” Thake said from between gritted teeth, his hands clenching into fists at his side. “Not a full rank.”

“Not _either_ now, though, is it?” The smile was so insidiously unpleasant. “Now you don’t even use your full name, as if refusing to acknowledge your past will make it easier to move past it.”

“I have moved past it, I’ve moved on quite comfortably thank you. Now I don’t have to live in a fucking icy hole in the ground at the ass end of the galaxy-”

“Watch your tongue, Aranth’ake’csapla,” Drenik said sharply. “That is seditious talk.”

“It can’t be seditious if I have no loyalty to the Ascendancy to begin with.”

The Commander struck him, his hand landing so heavily that Thake’s head jerked to the slide from the impact; Lana made a noise as if she was about to intervene, but Thessa waved a hand warningly at her. When Thake straightened again, there was a smear of blood over his top lip, which was curled up in the most feral smile imaginable.

“I’ve had worse during foreplay,” he said with a proud sneer.

“You are a _disgrace_ to the Ascendancy,” Drenik snarled, stabbing a finger sharply into Thake’s sternum. “You were given an opportunity to rectify the mistakes you made during your tenure as an assistant syndic, and so far you have proved to be an erratic, untrustworthy buffoon, completely incapable of following even the simplest of commands. You have irreparably damaged numerous missions with your incompetence-”

“I assure you, it was not incompetence. It was quite deliberate.”

“And now you have exposed the Ascendancy to a new threat by involving us in a war with Zakuul,” he continued, switching very abruptly to Basic and turning his gaze to Lana over Thake’s shoulder. “Our alliance with the Empire does not extend to the theft of documents pertaining to the security of our sovereignty, nor does it permit the Empire to engage with a new adversary on behalf of the Ascendancy without first acknowledging our Ruling Families.”

“We did nothing of the-”

“You were pursued by a portion of Zakuul’s fleet beyond our borders,” he snarled. “By fleeing into our sovereign space, you have signified to Zakuul that the Ascendancy stands with you in whatever crimes you have committed against them.”

“Whatever _crimes_ were committed, as you put it so crudely, were done in the defense of the greater galactic community. You should be _grateful_.”

“You are in no position to make such claims, Lord Beniko- in fact, the entirety of your Empire is in no position to make demands of us. You have lost your Emperor, your Intelligence bureau, your capital world, and your political system is on the brink of collapse. You have lost extensive ground against the Republic, and been humiliated by Zakuul, and now you have brought war to our doorstep while repeatedly violating the terms of the Concordance- tell me, Minister, does this sound like the actions of an ally you would wish to retain? Would you waste your own resources in keeping afloat such a vast liability for yourself?”

Lana was not intimidated, her stance wide and her hands clasped behind her back as she stared down the Admiral. “The Ascendancy has information that will greatly assist in the war effort against Zakuul,” she said coldly. “You have no right to withhold that information.”

“We have every right to withhold anything we so desire, _Sith_ ,” Drenik said flatly. “We are not your slaves. We are not beholden to your Empire.”

He turned back to Thake, who hadn’t bothered to wipe away the blood. “Where is the map?”

Thake grinned ferally at him. “I ate it,” he said proudly.

Drenik slapped him again, and harder this time; Thake staggered slightly, almost falling. Thessa grabbed at Lana’s sleeve when she went to assist him, shaking her head furiously to silently warn her that she could not intervene.

“Where is the map?” Drenik repeated coldly.

“Give it to him, Thake,” Thessa said pleadingly.

Thake didn’t move for several long seconds, and Thessa thought he might be about to refuse. But then he finally, _finally_ , reached inside the breast pocket of his uniform jacket, and pulled out a crumpled piece of actual paper and held it out to the Admiral.

Drenik made a noise that was half distressed and half disgusted. “Bad enough that you should steal it in the first place, but you also deface a piece of the Library as well?” he said, snatching it away from him. He tried carefully to smooth it out, before folding it and gently placing it within his own pocket. “Aranth’ake’csapla, you will accompany me to the Expeditionary Library to return the map, and to face interrogation to explain how you removed it in the first place.”

Lana growled softly. “This man is under my command, and under no circumstances do I approve of-”

“You have no power here, Sith,” Drenik said, all attempts at faux diplomacy gone now. His expression was cold and blank, his voice just this side of disgusted. “Your approval means nothing to me.”

Lana drew herself up, the air around her crackling with the threat of her power. “I will not forget this insult, Admiral,” she said softly, a silken threat in her words. “The _Sith Empire_ will not forget this insult.”

Drenik looked her up and down, as if assessing her disdainfully. “When the threats of a crumbling empire mean anything to us, it will surely be a dark day for the Ascendancy,” he said.

“Admiral, we meant as little disrespect as possible,” Thessa said, finally succumbing to the need to explain herself to someone. Even if nothing came of it. “We cannot express how sorry we are for the deception and theft from the Library, but it was necessary- Zakuul is a far greater threat than you give them credit for.”

Drenik glanced briefly at Thessa; she got the impression he found her unworthy of his time. “If Zakuul should prove itself to be an issue, then the Ascendancy will address it in a time and fashion that our governing body deems appropriate- not when two rogue agents decide works best for them.”

Thessa bit her lip before charging on. “I don’t think you understand the complexity of the situation,” she said urgently. “Zakuul was, until recently, under the command of one of Vitiate’s personas. He is still a threat to the galaxy, and Zakuul is but another of his toys.”

“We made an alliance with the first of Vitiate’s supposed toys- what do you suppose would stop us from making an alliance with the second, should we deem it to be in our best interests?”

“Vitiate intends to devour the galaxy,” Lana said loudly, as if she was speaking to a simpleton. “He will not stop at the Ascendancy’s borders just because your diplomats signed another concordance.”

“Still, that is hardly your decision to make, now, is it?” Drenik was radiating hostility now. “If that will be all, Sith, you are invited to take your leave. My commandos will see you escorted back to your ship and-”

“Admiral, please,” Thessa said in Cheunh, her heart lurching up into her throat, “you mustn’t- please don’t punish House Aranth for this.”

Apparently her request took him by surprise, because he actually stopped and turned to face her. “I beg your pardon?” he asked coldly. “I mustn’t do _what_ now?”

She licked suddenly dry lips, aware that her eyes were burning. “House Aranth played no part in our deception, and was not aware of our actions. Neither do they condone them.” She swallowed miserably. “Please, whatever punishments you deem appropriate for myself or Aranth’ake’csapla, we will shoulder them without complaint. But please do not discipline the entirety of our house.”

“I don’t believe you are in a position to request anything of the sort from me, Aranth’ess’anrokini.”

She closed her eyes. “I will gladly bear whatever sentence you would carry out on the House, if only it meant that innocents will not suffer.”

“Is it perhaps not a little late for you to be worrying about whether your actions will impact the innocents?” When she did not answer, she was surprised to hear him sigh. “You have a daughter being raised in the House, do you not?”

Her eyes snapped open. “I- yes, sir. Under promise to House Miurani.”

He nodded. “I had heard they had appointed you Merit Adoptive several years ago,” he said. “Very well. You may visit your daughter before you leave-”

She nearly swooned with the force of her relief. “Thank you, sir.”

“-but after that, you are to have no further contact with your daughter or with either House Aranth or House Miurani. You are to be exiled from our territories, and your name will be removed from the Aranth Wall of Memorial. You will cease to exist in our memories, and in our records.”

She felt as if the whole world had suddenly upended itself, and from a great distance she heard herself saying “That is remarkably fair of you, sir.”

“It’s more than fair, especially when I am well within my rights to see your House stripped of their land and titles and left destitute and despised.” His voice sounded like it was coming from underwater. “The same is extended to you, Aranth’ake’csapla. You are to be-”

“I heard you,” Thake snarled, and Thessa could barely hear him. The room seemed to be very slowly spinning.

“Good. Then we shall depart for Ac’siel, and you shall show to us precisely how you removed the map without detection. Captain Ranadem?”

Thessa lost focus somewhere around that point, and became vaguely aware of someone calling her name sometime later. Someone without a chiss accent.

“Thessa? Come on, come back to me, you’re alright.”

She blinked and focused at last, looking up at where Lana was leaning over her. The two of them were seated on a fast moving hover tram, the House Palace retreating in the distance as the pulled away down one of the main boulevards. The guards were still with them, and Thake was nowhere to be seen. “What-?”

“We have been granted a short window of opportunity to meet with your House before we must return to the ship,” Lana said. “Thake is... Thake will join us later.”

Thessa closed her eyes again, not wanting to think of the hours of torture Thake was likely going to be subjected to.

“Are you alright?” Lana asked carefully.

“No,” Thessa whispered immediately, not even having to think of the answer she wanted to give. “But that’s irrelevant.”

Lana didn’t respond for several minutes, only the sounds of the tram as it sped through the hallways filling the space between them. “You never told me how you knew your people would have a map to Zakuul,” she said finally, quietly, so that their escort could not hear them.

Thessa snorted bitterly. “You think my people just sat about twiddling our thumbs and waiting for the mighty Sith Empire to stumble upon us and introduce us to the rest of the galaxy?” she asked flatly, staring at the floor of the hover tram. “Just because your people call this the _Unknown Regions_ does not mean that those of us who live here have sat about in ignorance for thousands of years.”

“But then why did you not already have a map of the region? Was it not shared with your people?”

It took her a long time to answer. “Just because we knew what was waiting in the dark,” she said softly, “does not mean that we wanted to go out of our way to rouse it from its slumber.”

* * *

The halls of House Aranth were rather inauspicious, as befitted a House of middling rank. It was clean and well appointed, if not extravagantly so, and they were greeted at the door by a lesser cousin acting as Seneschal. Thessa did not seem to recognise them, but the way their eyes widened at her introduction made Lana certain that her infamy had preceded her.

“I will call down to the nursery,” they said, showing them into one of the vestibules off the main hall. It was not technically appropriate for guests of their standing to be hosted in- certainly not a Lord of the Sith and an elder daughter of the House- but Thessa didn’t make mention of the lapse, and Lana did not feel like it was her place to say anything. It wasn’t like it would matter in half an hours time anyway.

“So this was your home?” she asked in the silence, running her fingers over a mantle made of polished obsidian. It was adorned with various archeological pieces, cracked urns and stone tablets in a language she had no hope of understanding. It seemed like a pleasant enough place.

“I suppose it was,” Thessa said dully behind her, slumped in one of the waiting chairs. If Lana didn’t know any better, she would have suspected she was ill. “I lived here, let us leave it at that.”

She considered pursuing the matter gently, trying to unravel the source of her distress, but the door opened behind them and a tall Chiss woman entered, dressed regally in a belted gown of red and blue in some heavy fabric that looked delightfully warm, and in her hand she held-

Lana blinked. In her hand she held the hand of a little chiss girl, her hair dark and her blue skin pale, but her features unmistakably similar to Thessa’s.

_Oh._

Thessa’s expression was heartbreaking as she dropped to one knee on the floor, holding out her arms towards the girl. She said something softly to her, almost pleading, and after a little nudge of encouragement from the other chiss woman, the little girl shuffled forward and let Thessa take her into her arms.

She had never felt more out of place as she did in that moment, watching Thessa struggle not to break under the immensity of the moment, whispering rapidly to her daughter while she kissed her forehead and smoothed her hair down. Eventually she let the little girl pull away, who seemed remarkably shy in the presence of her mother.

The other woman cleared her throat quietly, and Thessa seemed to remember abruptly that they had company. She wiped quickly at her eyes before smiling brightly, taking the girl by the shoulders to turn her to face Lana.

“Would you like to introduce yourself, Demi?” Thessa asked gently.

The little girl gazed up at Lana with solemn eyes. “Hello, my name is Aranth’ede’miurani and I am two and a bit,” she intoned, reciting it in a manner that implied she’d worked very hard to memorise it. Her Basic was heavily accented, but she said it slowly enough that Lana was able to follow along.

“Two and a bit? Why, you’re practically a grown lady!” Lana smiled warmly at her, and the little girl watched her without blinking, before slowly putting her hand up to her mouth and stuffing a few fingers in; a moment later and she turned and hid her face in the skirt of the woman who had accompanied her, glancing briefly past the fabric before hiding again. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Demi.”

The chiss woman said something far too rapidly for Lana to hope to follow, and Thessa barked back a snarled response almost instantly.

“Did I do something wrong?” Lana asked hesitantly.

“It’s nothing,” Thessa said, her voice still sharp; she obviously caught herself, because her eyes closed for a moment and she took a deep breath. “Demi has not ever seen a human before, and she’s a little uncertain.”

Lana turned that over in her head for a moment. “But her father is human,” she said quietly.

Thessa looked as if she was in immense pain as she said “He is.” She took a long moment to clarify that point further. “Demi has not ever met her father.”

“You’re joking,” Lana said, and then when the silence trailed on awkwardly, “you’re not joking?”

“He was present at her birth, but we determined she would be far safer in the Ascendancy, far from the war, than she would be with us.”

She didn’t need to say ‘ _and far safer where she could not be used as leverage_ ’ for Lana to know the thought was in her head.

“I, um...” Thessa seemed to be on the brink of tears. “I need a few minutes alone with my daughter. I need to- I need to explain some things to her, about...”

“I understand,” Lana said softly, her heart breaking quietly in her chest. “I can wait for you in the hallway.”

“I appreciate that,” Thessa whispered.

Lana tried not to feel out of place as she waited in the icy stone hallway for Thessa, her nose burning from the cold and her emotions wildly in flux for being able to feel the heartache Thessa was going through. The chiss woman- whom she presumed was a nanny of some sort- left first, Demi held firmly in her grasp as they headed deeper into the house and away from her. Neither of them looked back.

It took a minute or two more for Thessa to emerge, and she hadn’t bothered to hide the fact that she’d been crying. In fact, as she turned to face her, Lana had to hide her wince at the realisation that she was _still_ crying.

“I’m so sorry, Thessa,” she said, going to place a hand on her shoulder and hesitating, not sure how such a gesture would be taken. “There are no words I can offer to express what your sacrifice has done for us all.”

Thessa didn’t answer, and she didn’t know what was worse- the fact that she was crying, or the fact that she was crying silently. The tears streamed down her cheeks, her eyes closed and scrunched up tight as if she hoped to stem the tide completely.

Lana bit her lip and made another attempt. “You will not be forgotten, agent- your actions will be-”

“I am aware of what war costs, my Lord,” Thessa said at last, her voice hoarse and ruined, as if she had been crying for hours already. “I know what is expected of those of us who are able to bear the burden.”

“Your child should not ever-”

“You lost your wife,” Thessa said sharply. “I do not believe my sacrifice is any more significant than that.”

Lana stared for a moment, her mouth hanging open in shock where she’d been interrupted. It took a great deal of control for her to respond without her voice cracking on the emotion she felt. “Lord Jen’zuska was not my wife,” she said softly, “but I appreciate the sentiment.”

Thessa nodded jerkily, just the once. “Regardless, my daughter will be raised in comfort, and in love.” She swallowed very noticeably. “The fact that it is not my love will make no difference.”

It was very obviously a lie, and they both knew it.

Lana did not call her out on it.

Hours later, when Thake was returned unconscious to the ship by masked commandos, dumped unceremoniously at the end of the ramp in a bloodied, bruised heap, they made their departure. Lana helped Kaliyo carry Thake through to the med bay for Lokin to tend to him, and Thessa took to the pilot’s seat once again, with SCORPIO wordlessly making the calculations for their incoming jump to hyperspace.

It was only when she was alone in the conference room after their jump that Lana allowed herself a moment to look again at the message that had popped up on her private holo account the moment they’d dropped out of hyperspace to begin with, hours earlier. A surprisingly heartfelt message from Theron, thanking her profusely for rescuing Ona’la and begging her to contact one of them, to let them know she was safe.

She didn’t need to use any sort of mind trick to know what he hadn’t written in the message- namely, the curiosity as to what could possibly have possessed her to risk so much for a woman who should have counted as her enemy.

Alone and unwatched, and still rubbed raw from the pain of witnessing Thessa’s exile from her daughter, Lana allowed herself to cry. She’d saved a woman she counted as a friend, despite their political and philosophical differences, because she’d truly believed that Ona’la was the only one with the strength to stand against Vitiate, having confronted him and survived three times now. She’d let the woman she loved more than anything be taken, to save the rest of the galaxy from a tyrant.

She would _never_ forgive herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you may be familiar with Thake, my husband's surly agent who turned up in an earlier story of mine (Interfaction Cooperation). I suppose now is a good moment to point out that, with the exception of A Quick Chat, all of my other swtor fics are canon compliant with the world building in Empire's Ransom. So if you've read them and are wondering if the characters you've seen in the other stories match up to these ones, they do!
> 
> As for my descriptions of Csilla and Chiss architecture/culture/the city of Csaplar- there's very little in canon to describe the underground cities, so that was mostly just guesswork. But I don't think the Chiss go for bleak or severe designs at all, even for a people disdainful of the Force and obsessed with the sciences, I think there's still room for art and beauty. For an idea of what I was going for with the carvings in the roof, look up fractal art sometime- specifically the Mandelbrot Set. Maths and art, in beautiful harmony!
> 
> And surprisingly, the Chiss are one of the few races to cling to the use of paper as a means of storing their records and history, instead of some kind of digital data storage.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for allusions to child abuse, depression, PTSD. Mentions of blood.

_The Spire, Zakuul, Wild Space_

Vaylin leaned heavily on the metal railing of the overhead gangway, foot tapping irritably as she stared down into the circular room below. The vast majority of the space was taken up by an immense holoprojection of the galactic map, exquisitely detailed and constantly refreshing as new information came through regarding Republic or Imperial fleet deployments. On the floor below her, Arcann was in conference with the Exarchs, who for the time being were acting as his generals for the upcoming invasion.

 _She_ , of course, was not invited. _She_ was just a teenager, who’d spent the better part of two decades shackled by their father’s forced mental restraints. _She_ was too erratic, too unreliable, too _everything_ , even if she was Arcann’s equal on the battlefield. No, of _course_ the new Emperor had to do everything by himself, prove that he was unrivalled as a military tactician, even if she knew Thexan would have been invited to join him without hesitation.

 _She_ was not Thexan.

She felt so stupidly, miserably hurt by the dismissal, and she was so _angry_ that it hurt. And more than that, she was lonely, far more so than she ever had been when Thexan had still been alive. There’d been plenty of occasions when her brothers had excluded her, caught up in their own little fantasy world and bound together so tightly that sometimes it was hard to separate the two of them, but she’d never felt... unwanted.

Now she just had to wonder if Arcann found her an inconvenient reminder of his own grief, whether acknowledging his last remaining family member just dragged too many painful memories before him.

She didn’t like being forgettable.

Whenever none of them were looking up at the map, she flicked her fingers towards it in the same fashion one would swat at an insect. It was a trifling use of her powers, but it amused her immensely to see the coloured, blinking icons that signified the placement of the various fleets shiver and flicker and slide a few inches out of place. One of them would look up, frown in confusion and press a few keys to reset the map, and then she’d bide her time and do it all over again once no one was paying attention.

Petty, yes, but she had nothing else to do. And the power seething under her skin wanted an outlet, wanted to burst out of her in a torrent of violence and anger, and keeping it contained was both frustrating and exhausting. She wanted to lash out and she wanted attention and she wanted someone to acknowledge her and how hard she was trying and how much she wanted to explode outwards in her own miniature supernova...

The metal under her hands whined very abruptly, and she cursed and snarled as she lurched backwards, clutching her now burned palm to her chest. Where she’d been clinging to the railing, the metal had melted beneath her grip, the molten slag now dripping down onto the gangway and slithering between the metal gridding.

With a snarl, she turned her back on the chamber and stalked out, hoping perversely that the searing hot metal dripped down onto someone’s skull.

_Wasn’t wanted, wasn’t needed, wasn’t Thexan, wasn’t father, wasn’t a leader, wasn’t a general, wasn’t anything anything anything-_

She let out a strangled growl, her hands going up to her head as if she could just rip it open and pull out the wayward, painful thoughts. Insolent and cruel and deserved to be punished but _ugh_ she couldn’t punish thoughts and ideas and words that wouldn’t _stop_.

If she’d had more time to grow accustomed to this, if she’d had the opportunity to just let her powers come to her naturally over the years instead of being bombarded with them the moment father’s seals had failed-

The sith fools had called father Vitiate. She knew Vitiate. She’d undergone precisely the same gruelling training and education that her brothers had, and she knew the sith Emperor. Granted, now she couldn’t help but wonder how much of her knowledge had come to her already tainted, filtered by Valkorion’s desire to keep this life at an arm’s length from his other playground.

But she knew what they said about Vitiate. The ghost who ate planets. The spirit who jumped from host to host, consuming and devouring and leaving empty husks in its wake.

Which, if her father really _was_ Vitiate like the sith fools claimed, meant that he would have jumped again in the moments after his mortal form’s death. She knew without a shadow of a doubt that Arcann did not have their father’s spirit lurking in him, and she knew _she_ didn’t have their father’s spirit lurking in her, which left one living, viable candidate.

She clenched her burned hand against her chest and stalked from the palace.

The vaulted trophy halls were hidden away from the public, much lauded but rarely seen; Arcann seemed determined to carry over their father’s paranoia in that regard, because if there was less opportunities for someone to interact with the treasures hidden within, there was less opportunity for someone to abscond with them.

Like the _incident_ several months earlier, when someone had fled with that Jedi woman, the one father had been most adamant about Thexan and Arcann retrieving. His insistence made sense now, if he truly was Vitiate- of course he’d want the woman who’d proved repeatedly to be the most immune to his influence. Now, the trophy halls were kept under lock and key, guarded at all times and monitored around the clock. Special dispensation was required to enter, and an escort.

She wasn’t really in the mood for either.

There were two Knights on duty as she approached the main doors of the facility. “Good afternoon, Princess,” one of them said, taking a step towards her, “how may we-”

She picked him up with the Force and hurled him at the far wall, his armour crunching loudly as his yell of surprise turned into a scream of pain. The other Knight stood stunned for a moment, their expression hidden by the sleek golden mask of the Order; she could feel the surge of their terror though, the lurching, heaving fear and adrenalin, and that delighted her.

With her other hand she reached out, and then the Knight was surging towards her, their feet several inches off the ground as their hands clawed desperately at their throat. Vaylin held them aloft for a few moments, vaguely amused by their panic, and then squeezed her hand down into a fist; there was a horrifying crack and the Knight went limp, their head lolling to the side at an unnatural angle.

The other was whimpering pitifully and trying to crawl away, a faint smear of blood trailing across the floor where they’d tried to escape. She came to a stop over them, hands clenched into fists at her sides.

“Princess, _mercy_ , please have mercy-”

Her hand snapped out, her fingers making a pinching gesture, and from under the mask came a gagging, choking sound; it endured for several seconds, the noise growing more panicked while the figure at her feet jerked and writhed, and then... then they stilled, slumping down onto the metal grating of the floor.

She wanted to feel satisfied, or smug, or something- instead she just felt angrier, more frustrated than she had when she’d first set out. Leaning down, she snatched up the pass card from the dead guard’s belt and stuffed it into the door scanner, hissing angrily at it when it took a few seconds to read and allow her access.

The doors finally slid open, and she stalked into the hallways beyond; there were other trophies and trinkets, other prisoners bound within carbonite who had proven unworthy in the face of Zakuul’s armies.

She was only interested in one, however.

In the depths of the facility, in a rather daunting chamber that rose to impressive heights and sunk away into shadows far below, a single figure in carbonite was displayed on a central platform. Even frozen, she looked intimidating- this _dark_ lord, this woman who had been the closest she’d ever glimpsed of someone who felt even remotely similar to her. She’d quite literally _seethed_ with power, even bound and imprisoned in her father’s throne room, she’d been arrogant and violent and self assured and so confident of her own immortality.

No wonder her father had been obsessed with her- they were practically identical.

She stood before her, staring up at her face. Waiting for a spark of revelation. Waiting to be proved right.

“I know you’re in there,” she said finally, her voice echoing hollowly in the vast chamber.

There was no answer.

“I know you’re in there, _father_ ,” she repeated, spitting it like a curse. “I know you’re hiding- the blocks are gone and you can’t stop my power now, and when you wake up I’m going to be _better_ than you.”

Still nothing.

She hissed out a breath, frustration rising rapidly in her. “I _hate_ you,” she said softly, over-enunciating each word. “You tried to stop me and you failed, and now you’re dead. You’re dead and I’m not. Guess we know which one of us is _better_ now.”

No movement, no acknowledgement. Nothing.

The rage simmering in her abruptly bubbled up and over and she shrieked, loud and long and feral, and threw herself at the carbonite figure with all the violence and all the loathing she’d tried to contain and failed.

“ _I hate you!_ ” she screamed, digging her nails into the carbonite as if she could scratch her way down to the woman inside. Or rather, to the body she was increasingly certain housed her father’s spirit. “I hate you, I know you can hear me! I hate you, _I hate you!_ ”

Frozen within the carbonite, the figure before her did not react, and she felt no whisper of a response in the Force around her- not even the shadow of a cold smirk brushing against her mind. She screamed her rage, and the chamber around her shook with the force of it; somewhere overhead a pipe burst, and then another, steam shrieking violently as the system depressurized. Several panels warped and buckled, the metal whining in protest before falling off the wall and down into the depths of the chamber.

She clawed at the carbonite figure, raking her nails over it again and again until she began to leave bloodied smears over the surface. The woman didn’t react, understandably, and she still felt nothing from her father. The lying bastard who was definitely in there and definitely hiding from her and who she hated with every fibre of her being-

“Why did you _leave_?” she shrieked, slamming over fists down on the surface. “Why did you let any of it _happen_ , you were _better_ than all of them!”

Her fingers were aching from where she’d broken her nails down to bloody, ragged stubs on the achingly cold surface, so she turned instead to her fists, smashing them down over and over waiting for the carbonite to fracture and shatter, waiting for the lying liar inside to fracture and shatter under her relentless assault.

The skin split over her knuckles, and she screamed until her throat was hoarse.

“I hate you!” she screeched, sinking to her knees as exhaustion took her. “ _I hate you!_ ”

“ _Vaylin!_ ”

The shout echoed around the chamber, the robotic distortion of his mask making it sound even more angry than it probably was intended to be. She slumped down onto the carbonite, her head resting against the painful cold of the surface as she panted for breath and listened to the footsteps drawing closer behind her.

“Vaylin.”

Panting softly, she closed her eyes. “Go away, Arcann,” she whispered.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“Does ‘ _nothing_ ’ always involve murdering several Knights and defacing my trophy chamber?”

She huffed out a laugh, the sound halfway hysterical. “That’s rather a normal day for me, brother,” she said, still breathless. “I find it strange that you need to question it at all.”

He didn’t answer immediately, but his footsteps slowed; she could feel him drawing closer, wandering across the gangway towards her. She tried not to flinch when he sat down beside her, biting her lip to stop from crying.

He was close enough that they were touching at the hip, and he rested his arms on his upraised knees. “This doesn’t look like nothing,” he said, soft despite the metallic growl of the mask. “What are you doing, Vaylin?”

She bit her lip harder, until she could taste blood. “What do you care,” she whispered, spitting out a glob of blood, where it ran down the slick surface of the carbonite before dripping onto the metal grating beneath her knees.

“Should I not care?”

“You tell me, mister big fancy Emperor,” she snapped, and then laughed again, a little more hysterically than the last. She wiped quickly at her eyes, which did little to help her tears given how much blood she streaked across her cheeks instead. “With all your big meetings to attend-”

“Vaylin.”

“And all your big invasions to plan-”

“ _Vaylin_.”

“And you just standing there wishing you had Thexan with you instead of me.”

That pulled him up short, and it was a moment before he said quietly “Just because I miss him, doesn’t mean I don’t care about you.”

She bowed her head. “But you wish you had him back.”

“Of course I do. I can’t want both of you with me? Why is it a ‘ _one or the other_ ’ scenario?”

She shrugged miserably. “I don’t know,” she mumbled.

Arcann sighed, the sound strange through the distortion of the mask- it was almost more like the sound of an air vent than a human- and then he shifted; she almost squeaked in alarm when she felt his arm settle over her shoulder, and then he was tugging her up against him in an awkward hug. He was stiff and uncomfortable, but honestly so was she, so she couldn’t fault him for that; at least he was trying.

Eventually she relaxed into him, too exhausted to remain difficult, and his hand ran absently back and forth on her arm where he held her; she put her head on his shoulder and he didn’t object or scowl at her, and for a moment it was easy enough to pretend that nothing was amiss, that they weren’t broken and battered and ruined by the last few months. That Thexan would be waiting for them in the next room, and if she glanced sideways Arcann would be whole and unmaimed, and if she closed her eyes her mind would be free of the seething, erratic ups and downs that plagued her.

“I’m sorry, Vaylin,” he said quietly. If she had the energy for pettiness, she might have laughed at him for apologising, mocked him for making a concession of weakness to her.

But she was tired. She was so tired.

“I’m sorry too,” she said instead.

After a few minutes of silence he stirred slightly, nodding his head towards the figure looming above them. “What were you doing to her?” he asked, honest confusion in his voice. “Are you mad at her for father?”

Vaylin snorted weakly. “If I was mad at _her_ for father, I’d be mad at _you_ for father,” she said pointedly.

“Then what were you doing?”

She hesitated- did she explain to him that she suspected their father still lived, or did he already share her suspicions? Would he call her delusional, or would he react in a paranoid rage?

“Vaylin?”

“It’s nothing,” she said, making sure he couldn’t see her face. “Just bored. And- _frustrated_. And a lot of things.”

“You killed three guards,” he said, a faint hint of amusement in his voice.

“I only killed two-”

“Back in the war room- someone got hit in the head with the molten metal. It wasn’t pleasant to watch.”

She elbowed him in the ribs, and he grunted. “You, mighty Emperor and conqueror of battlefields, being squeamish of death?”

“ _No_ ,” he said instantly, the amusement replaced with irritation. “It’s- never mind. I’m _not_ squeamish.”

“Sounds like it to me-”

“ _Shut up_ ,” he snarled, half pushing away from her so that she almost fell onto her side on the gangway. “Why are you bored?”

She smirked at him as she righted herself. “Subtle conversation change,” she said.

“We have a whole empire all to ourselves, why are you bored?”

His sheer inability to grasp her reasons for hurting made it burn all the hotter within her. “ _You_ have an empire to play with Arcann,” she spat. “ _You_. Not me.”

“What?”

She snarled out a wordless growl of frustration, digging her hands into her hair and hiding her face against her upraised knees. “How can you _possibly_ be this stupid?”

“You’d be bored doing the administrative things- the war councils and all that.”

“Did you _ask_ me?”

“What?”

She muffled a scream of frustration against her knees.

“You _want_ to do the boring administrative things?”

“I _want_ to be included,” she snarled, and she was horrified to find that she was crying. “I’m not Thexan and I can’t _be_ Thexan but you look at me like you hate that I remind you of him and I miss him too but I feel like I _can’t_ miss him because it’s _different_ for you.”

He didn’t interrupt her tirade, and her words fell away to silence; if anything, she probably would have guessed that she’d hurt him, but she’d never been good at reading people like that. For all she knew he could have just been collecting his thoughts.

“High Justice,” he said abruptly, without preamble. He didn’t look at her.

“What?”

“What?” he repeated, mimicking her voice in an attempt to mock her. “High Justice. That can be your title.”

She was already bouncing one of her feet again, restless to the point of agitation. “What’s a High Justice do?”

“Whatever you want. You can be the leader of the Knights, how’s that? High Justice Vaylin, commander of the Knights of Zakuul. My second in command, and extension of my wrath.”

Vaylin crinkled her nose in vague disgust. “Ew, the sith had a Wrath, I don’t want to be like her.”

“Just High Justice then.”

She was silent for a moment as she considered the offer, and then she sniffed loudly, wiping her nose on the back of her sleeve. “And I could come with you to the war councils?” she asked, horrified at how small her voice sounded, how pathetic and weak. “You’d let me be useful?”

“If that’s what’d make you happy,” he said, and even with the metallic drawl of the mask he sounded more honest than she’d heard him sound in a long time. “You have to stop killing Knights though.”

She scowled. “You sound just like father-”

“I _don’t_ ,” he snarled, his voice echoing around the chamber with a hint of a far darker shadow of rage laced through it. “I wouldn’t ever do- _things_ to you, in your head, like he did. Don’t _ever_ compare me to him.”

It was easier not to acknowledge the reminder of yet another facet of their- _her_ \- abuse, so instead she just leaned slowly to the side until she came to rest up against him. After a moment or two, he relented and wrapped his arm around her again.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

She heard him sigh, that weirdly robotic sound that made him sound more machine than man. “I’m sorry too,” he said gruffly.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

* * *

_Coruscant, Corusca Sector, Core Worlds_

“I _love_ this,” drawled one of the Havoc Squad soldiers from where they were leaning up against a nearby wall.

They were in a small vestibule in the Senate Tower, not far from where he’d been unceremoniously dragged only an hour or two earlier for the painfully inept attempt at prosecuting him for his actions during the invasion. There was a loud voice booming somewhere deeper within the Tower, running a commentary on who was currently holding the floor in the Senate, like some strange cross between a huttball commentator and a spaceport announcements terminal. They were debating Arcann’s declaration of war, he knew that; he felt like he should care more than he did, that he should at least be smug and gleeful at what he knew was going to befall them.

But he was tired. He was tired and he was frustrated, and he’d had to endure the shame of suffering a panic attack in front of the most powerful individuals in the Republic, and right now the extent of his bitterness was only a vague desire to see them all ruined and humiliated and castigated as he had been.

For now, however, he was sitting outside the chambers of the Jedi Council, waiting for Ona’la to return and fetch him like a forgotten pet, while the much lauded Havoc Squad was reduced to security detail for him.

How delightful for all of them.

Thexan glanced over at the one who had spoken, unperturbed by the sarcasm, but apparently he was the only one in the vestibule _not_ bothered by it. The shortest and stockiest of the four soldiers turned to the other, pointing aggressively. “Shut your damn mouth, Vik,” she snarled, because he was increasingly convinced it was Major Hervoz behind the visor. “You’re not _paid_ to love it, you’re _paid_ to do your job.”

“Didn’t know my job was glorified babysitter, boss, but sure, whatever.”

“Your _job_ is whatever I tell you it is- and right now, yeah, you’re a glorified babysitter.”

The far taller soldier crossed their arms over their chest, head cocked to the side. “C’mon, boss- you can’t tell me you’re happy with this gig. We _should_ be out in the field blowing the shit out of some Imps, not dragging his highness around on his diamond studded leash.”

“I’m right _here_ ,” Thexan said irritably.

“Oh shit, sorry princess- your _sapphire_ studded leash, it goes better with your eyes.”

“Stand _down_ , Specialist,” Major Hervoz spat, coming to stand in front of her subordinate; they towered over her by a good foot and a half, and had Thexan not read the Major’s file extensively in the leadup to Zakuul’s invasion, he would have thought she had a death wish. “I don’t _appreciate_ your attitude.”

“C’mon, boss-”

“Don’t you ‘ _c’mon boss_ ’ me, Tanno Vik, not when I am _telling you_ to watch your fucking attitude. Straighten up, or I’m gonna let the ship droid go on extended R &R for a month or so and leave all its duties up to you, _including_ scrubbing the ‘fresher after you’ve wrecked it every morning.”

The taller soldier was silent for a few long beats, and then they straightened; they didn’t need to take the helmet off for Thexan to feel the waves of sullen energy rolling off of them. “Whatever you say, ma’am,” they said gruffly.

“Damn right, whatever I say,” she said, nodding emphatically. “Now apologise to the young man.”

Thexan closed his eyes, just holding off a wince. “That won’t be necessary-”

“Son, I am in the middle of disciplining an asshole, so I’d appreciate it if you just politely sat there and waited your turn, alright?”

He snapped his mouth shut, and stared down at his hands. He didn’t know whether to feel chastised or furious, honestly.

“Apologise to the prince, Vik.”

“Is that a joke, Major?”

“The joke here is that I’m tolerating your bullshit in the first place, Specialist.”

The soldier glanced from Thexan to their commanding officer and back again. Their expression was unreadable beneath the mask, and he was glad for that. “He killed a whole bunch of our guys, boss,” they said flatly. “Want me to fucking well lick his boots while I’m at it?”

She stabbed a finger into his broad chest. “ _You’ve_ killed a whole bunch of our guys, you hypocritical asshole, and there’s been plenty of times you’ve voiced your disappointment when I didn’t choose profit over saving innocent lives, so in _what galaxy_ do you think you’ve got the right to claim the high road?”

“I don’t require or want an apology,” Thexan blurted out from between gritted teeth, resisting the urge to clench his hands into fists. Ona’la was only one room away, just beyond the doorway- if he turned his head and leaned forward slightly, he’d be able to see her, seated in the Jedi Council as their newest member as they planned to go to war.

With his brother.

Who had denied him.

While the woman who had the greatest cause to despise him had bound her to him.

He just wanted to go to sleep until he could wake up from this nightmare.

The door to the Jedi Council was open, but there was a transparent forcefield across the door, much like the one to his cell far below; unlike his cell, this one was apparently soundproofed, because he couldn’t hear a word of what was being discussed in the chamber, and he knew that he could only stare at Ona’la for so long hoping to read her lips before it crossed into obsessively creepy or clingy.

He wanted to know about the war. He wanted to know if Arcann was in danger, he needed to know if his sacrifice was for nothing because now Arcann was alone against the combined fury of the Republic and the Sith, and what if-

“Hey.” A heavy gloved hand thumped down on his shoulder, jolting him out of his spiralling internal panic. “You alright there son? You went white as a sheet just now.”

“ _Don’t touch me_ ,” he hissed, horrified at how his voice trembled.

The Major took her hand away immediately, but she didn’t step away. “Look, son, I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt right now because I happen to trust the Battlemaster implicitly, but you might want to think about stowing that attitude, alright?”

“Stop calling me son,” he said, for lack of anything better to say. How did one respond to a gesture of... kindness? Understanding, was that what it was? Ona’la, he could understand it from Ona’la, because her entire being was imbued with a determination to love, but from a stranger? “It’s infantilizing.”

She reached up and flicked a button on her helmet, and the seals disengaged from her armour; a moment later and she was pulling it up off over her head, her hair askew and stuck to her brown skin with sweat. Her hair was dark, but there were more than a few streaks of silver through it, and there were a few lines around her eyes as she tucked her helmet under her arm and held it against her hip. “I’m nearly two decades older than you, _son_ ,” she said pointedly, “but okay. What’s good for you, can I call you ‘ _your Highness_ ’?”

“Major, can I just express my discomfort with you removing your protective visor in a volatile situation,” one of the other soldiers said.

“Noted, Lieutenant,” she said calmly, not looking away from Thexan. “Is ‘ _your Highness_ ’ okay?”

He stared at her for a long moment, trying to get a read on her; she was blunt, he’d give her that. Friendlier than he would have guessed, going off of her file, but the arrogant confidence was true to form. He couldn’t think of many other commanding officers who’d be foolish or egotistical enough to just casually take their helmet off for a chat with a dangerous enemy.

_Maybe you need to stop thinking of yourself as dangerous, and accept that the only thing anyone feels for you is pity._

Thexan’s gaze fell to the ground. “‘ _Your Highness_ ’ is fine,” he said quietly, wishing very abruptly that they’d all leave him alone.

“Okay then, your Highness- sorry for Vik, by the way. He’s an asshole.”

“She keeps me ‘cause I’m the pretty one,” the soldier drawled behind her.

“Pfft, you _wish_ , Vik,” she said. “Anyway, she won’t be long, so you can stop fretting.”

Thexan blinked, aware that the last comment had been directed at him. “What?”

“The Battlemaster won’t be long,” she said with a shrug. “You keep looking at the door every five seconds as if you’re paranoid she’s gonna vanish.”

“I’m not paranoid-”

“But you’re _also_ not looking for the best way to _escape_ , your Highness, sir. I’ve done escort duty on my fair share of high profile prisoners-of-war, and you are far more concerned about where the Battlemaster is than where the exit is.”

She was far more perceptive and far more clever with her methods than Malcolm and Dawnstar had been in the entire week they’d interrogated him. “She is the biggest threat to me,” he said, his voice low. “It stands to reason I’d want to know where a dangerous predator was.”

One of the other soldiers- the one the Major had addressed as Lieutenant- let out a gawkish laugh. “Dangerous predator,” they said, amusement rich in their voice. “Yep, definitely describes the Battlemaster.”

Major Hervoz chuckled, shaking her head, as she dropped to a crouch next to the couch he was seated on. Thexan leaned away from her. “What are you doing?”

“Old lady- sometimes my back aches,” she said, wincing slightly as she settled. “Okay. Long time ago- feels like another lifetime, sometimes- I worked in the Refugee Support Network on Corellia, a division of CorSec, back before the Treaty. Back when I was lying trying to prove to my folks that I wasn’t better with a blaster than a datapad. And see, you see all kinds of folk working in an office like that, right on the edge of a warzone- including a lot of folk who realised too late that they didn’t like the team they were playing for and didn’t know what else to do but to run.”

The implications of her words sank in, and he jerked backwards as if she’d slapped him. “I’m not _running_ ,” he snarled, though he could feel his hands shaking. “I’m not _running_ from anything.”

“Maybe run’s the wrong word for it,” she said, rubbing her chin and apparently unperturbed by his snappishness. “They were lost. Like they’d had the rug pulled out from under them and they’d woken up and stared around not knowing which way they needed to go, which way to find safety. So they sit and they stare and they’re quiet a lot, and the ones who came from the other side of the trenches, they were the worst, you could see it. Sort of hollowed out inside, and they’d latch onto the caseworkers like we were some kind of beacon in the dark.”

He took a deep breath through his nose, fighting to keep himself under control. “I’d appreciate if you could keep your condescending attempts at junk psychology to yourself, Major,” he said, his voice hoarse.

She shrugged. “Fair call,” she said, rising from the crouch and taking a step back. “Just an observation. You should think about being nicer to her, though- she signed herself up for prison or execution on your account, because she seems to think you’re worth it. Maybe don’t treat her like she’s shit on the bottom of your boots just because no one ever taught you how to say thank you, you hear?”

“ _Please_ stop talking,” he said, the words slipping out of him far more urgently and far more panicked than he would have liked.

Blessedly, the Major stopped talking, going back to her place by the door to the hallway, rather than by the door to the Jedi Council chambers; despite what she seemed to deem a logical observation on her part, she was still convinced he was going to make an attempt to escape.

What was the point of escape, though, if Arcann didn’t want to see him? Where could he possibly go, what purpose could he serve, when his entire life until now had been defined by one constant- the presence of his brother, and his desire to keep him safe.

What was he, without Arcann? Without a brother, without a twin, without someone who understood him so instinctively?

 _They were lost_ , Major Hervoz had said, with her far too perceptive gaze.

He gritted his teeth, and willed himself to sit like a stone; he couldn’t meditate to find peace, but he could ignore them all. He could try, anyway.

Thankfully enough for him, the Council meeting drew to a close not too much later, and Thexan had to fight back the sheer wave of relief he felt at seeing the Jedi Masters depart in pairs and alone. Ona’la would be here soon, someone who was at least a constant in this quagmire of uncertainty he found himself lost in, and then he could go and hide somewhere and not have to deal with being gawked at and prodded emotionally and expected to perform for all these Republic commoners.

... not that he was latching onto her like Major Hervoz had suggested, nothing of the sort, it was simply-

She stepped through the doorway, as elegantly composed as always- as if she hadn’t just sat in on a council of war for over two hours- and the sight of her was enough to make his fingers dig in to the cushions either side of his hips on the couch, his stomach lurching.

For a moment he was terrified she’d noticed, the way her eyes lingered quizzically on him for a fraction of a moment, but then she was smiling and turning to Major Hervoz- who was still quite comfortable without her helmet on, apparently- and to his immense surprise the two women moved to embrace one another.

He blinked; actually, that shouldn’t come as so much of a surprise anymore. The longer he spent in her company, the more he was coming to realise that Ona’la went out of her way to cultivate and maintain friendships, no matter where she went or who she was talking to. She seemed determined to make everyone feel worthy of her attention and her affection.

And her hugs.

He glanced away from the reunion, feeling like an intruder. And not at all jealous. She hugged everyone. She was constantly extending physical comfort and physical intimacy to the people around her, not just him. There was nothing special about the way she touched him or interacted with him; it was just who she was and it clearly meant nothing to her.

“I was surprised to see you stationed in Coruscant, given the recent events, Major,” Ona’la was saying. “You don’t strike me as the sort of woman with the patience for Core World politics.”

“No, if they don’t put us back on the front lines ASAP, I’m stealing a ship and going rogue,” Major Hervoz said, and he got the impression it was supposed to be sarcastic but instead came across as deathly serious.

Ona’la laughed delightedly, and the sound cut straight through him; he closed his eyes and tried to will himself to vanish, to not be here with her. “Careful now,” she said, amusement rich in her voice, “if you try to run off to play outlaw gunman, I’ll follow through on my threat to abscond with your medic.”

“I’m flattered by your sterling opinion of me as always, Master Jedi,” one of the soldiers said; it was hard to tell through the mask, but she sounded wryly amused.

“Why, Sergeant Dorne, you sound reluctant to take me up on my offer.”

“It would depend on just how many rules Major Hervoz was planning on breaking during her grand defiance.”

“Oh, there’s a limit to what you’ll accept?”

“Of course.” The featureless helmet would have made the deadpan delivery even more funny, if he’d been in a mood to laugh. “No more than seven rules broken.”

“Seven?” Major Hervoz said with mock outrage. “That’s two less than last time!”

“I no longer trust you with the other two.”

He wasn’t interested in feeling more and more unwanted and alienated by their friendly banter, so he did his best to tune them all out; to his surprise, it must have worked, because the next thing he knew, he was opening his eyes to the brief touch of a hand against his shoulder, Ona’la standing next to him with a questioning look on her face.

They were alone in the vestibule.

“Are you alright?” she asked quietly. “I realise it’s been somewhat of a traumatic day for you.”

Her concern should have touched him, but instead it only made him angry. “I’m not a toddler left abandoned in a park,” he snapped, “and, incidentally, if you feel concerned about any trauma I may have experienced, perhaps you should look to yourself for someone to blame.”

She carefully removed her hand from his shoulder. “Well, at least your spirit fights on,” she said, with somewhat weary amusement. “Are you ready to go?”

“Go?” The question left him more flummoxed than he would have liked to admit; true, she’d fought for him in the hearing, but he hadn’t actually stopped to think of what that might actually entail for him. “I’m not being returned to the cell?”

Her smile frightened him for how much it affected him. “Of course not, you’re safe with me now.” She held out her hand in offering. “No more cells, I promise.”

He stared at the outstretched hand- and then stood up unassisted, pointedly refusing her offer of help and cooperation. He thought she might have sighed, but by the time he turned to face her there was no trace of irritation in her expression.

“Come with me.”

She led him through the back halls of the Senate Tower, away from the vaulted grand entrance. Somewhere in the lower halls, there was a speeder hangar that was clearly intended for less distinguished employees of the Tower- the guards and the cleaners and the technicians and so on, those who were invisible to the higher ups. There was an airspeeder waiting for them, a two person affair with nothing to distinguish it from the millions of other airspeeders used across the planet. It was mundane and sensible.

He didn’t know why that irritated him.

Ona’la kept up a constant chatter as they soared through the airlanes and away from the Tower; it was the first time he’d had relatively fresh air on his face in weeks, if he discounted the chaos of the parade a week earlier, and he tipped his head back to stare up at the night sky as they flew, glad that Ona’la apparently didn’t need any vocal responses from him.

It was too bright on Coruscant to see the stars, even at night, and for a moment he thought of the cold, magnificent loneliness of the Spire, of standing close to the glass and imagining he was standing amongst the stars.

Stars, but he missed home.

“Here we are,” Ona’la said, as if she could read his thoughts; she peeled the airspeeder away from the traffic and towards a residential tower, setting down on the landing pad outside the penthouse. “You’ll be safe here for the next few days.”

He climbed out of the speeder slowly, looking up at the impressive apartment. “This is yours?”

Ona’la laughed, somewhat hesitantly. “No, sadly,” she said. “It’s not the Jedi way to seek material wealth, so I wouldn’t ever have the means to afford something of this calibre.”

It was just as impressive inside as it was on the outside, even featuring a fountain in the lobby. There were thick woolen rugs on the floor and exquisite pieces of art on the walls. Delicate chandeliers hung from the ceilings, a reminder of the wealth and class of the owner of the building.

But there were no personal touches, nothing to indicate that this space and this place was hers. It felt more like some sort of hotel, perhaps, clean and elegantly appointed, but impersonal. “You don’t live here?” he asked, for something to break the awkward silence.

She shrugged, several steps ahead of him on the stairs. “I don’t really live anywhere,” she said. “I go where I’m needed, really. This is just another stopover in a lifetime of stopovers.”

That seemed... sad. Home was such a powerful motivator for him, wrapped up in memories of his siblings and his childhood, brief flashes of his mother and the few times his father had truly expressed an interest in him beyond his value as a resource. To not have that as an anchor, to not have that emotional harbour to hide in...

He couldn’t imagine that.

There was a grand hall on the second floor, with floor to ceiling windows overlooking the city; it was dark outside, or as dark as a planet like Coruscant was likely to get with all the light pollution, and the hall itself only had a few spots of illumination to ensure they didn’t trip in the dark. It was clearly supposed to be used for parties and gatherings, the view spectacular, but he couldn’t honestly see Ona’la as the hostess of a party.

He wondered who had bequeathed this apartment to her, and how they could possibly have misjudged her character so poorly.

There was a small antechamber off of the main hall that she led him to, and he finally began to see hints of her habitation- some datapads lying stacked on a side table, a robe thrown haphazardly over the back of a chair, a collection of assorted mechanical odds and ends and a handful of crystals that sang softly to him through the Force, and which were quite clearly the beginnings of her attempts to build a replacement lightsaber.

She bypassed all of that, however, and led him to the third of three doors on the far wall, opening the door to reveal a neatly appointed bedroom that was just as soulless and bland as the rest of the immense apartment.

“We’ll probably be leaving tomorrow, or the day after,” she said, almost as if she was apologizing. “Are you sure you won’t have some food?”

He brushed past her and into the bedroom, which in itself was a decadence after a month of prison cots and hospital beds. Of course, it paled into squalour when compared to his bedchamber on Zakuul, with the sumptuous fittings and silken sheets and whatever his heart should desire just within reach-

He gritted his teeth and bowed his head. “I’m not hungry,” he ground out.

“Still, you need energy- I could have the droid leave out a platter of things that won’t spoil?”

She was so relentlessly determined to care. He didn’t understand where she found the energy. “No, thank you,” he said stiltedly.

To his immense frustration and confusion, she didn’t leave. “Do you need to talk about today at all?” she asked quietly.

“Talk about what?” he snapped; he just wanted her to leave, he just wanted to be alone with his thoughts and not alone with her and he couldn’t concentrate with her scent everywhere and just- “Talk about how you and your Republic mocked and humiliated me for your own gain?”

“I was actually referring to your brother,” she said, her voice just as gentle as it had been for the previous question. For all that he snapped and snarled at her, she never seemed to flinch away from him for it. “You didn’t seem to take his address very well.”

“And how _should_ I have taken it? Since you seem to be the expert on my moods and emotional wellbeing- please, explain to _me_ how _I_ reacted incorrectly.”

“I wasn’t saying anything of the sort, Thexan,” she said, firmly but gently. “You know that I wasn’t.”

“I don’t know _anything_ when it comes to you.”

There was a long silence behind him, as if she was assessing his words and determining her response; he didn’t realise he was all but cringing waiting for her answer until she sighed. “Alright, Thexan,” she said finally. “If you need anything, I’ll be in the room next door. The house droid will see to any requests you have, within reason.”

She didn’t say ‘ _don’t try to escape_ ’ and she didn’t threaten him to behave himself. She didn’t grandly proclaim what security measures were in place as a way to intimidate him. She treated him like a guest in what passed for her home.

“Goodnight, Thexan,” she said, when he didn’t answer her.

“He was angry,” he found himself saying, almost not quite able to believe the words were leaving his mouth. Behind him, he felt Ona’la pause in the doorway, and he was glad he couldn’t see her face. That she couldn’t see _his_ face. “He was- he was always angry, but it was... worse.”

She didn’t say anything, giving him the space to blunder through it in his own time; he didn’t know whether he resented her for that or whether he was desperately grateful.

“I- tried, as much as I could, to help. To stop him from being angry, but he-” His lips were dry, his mouth was dry, “-father never made it easy.”

The words were like physical, awkward _things_ in his chest and his throat, trying to choke him, wedged tight within him and painful enough that he wanted to gag on them.

“It was worse in the last few years,” he said hollowly, “which I suppose in hindsight was when he weakened, after you killed him.” He heard her soft intake of breath, not quite a gasp, and he didn’t want to think about her lips parting on the sound with a look of hurt in her eyes. “Arcann- he pushed, and father would ignore him. Dismiss him. It hurt, being ignored, so he’d keep trying.”

 _I couldn’t comfort him_ , he didn’t say.

“The invasion was my idea,” he said instead, the first time he’d made any sort of admission about his crimes. “I thought- I didn’t know what I was supposed to think. We were invincible, unstoppable, and father was obsessed with the- with the galaxy, so it had to be a good thing.” He was babbling, and he couldn’t quite get enough air into his lungs, and his eyes were stinging and _stars above_ he was so glad she couldn’t see his face. “Destroy and demoralize in his name, prove that we were superior, it was- it made _sense_.”

 _None_ of this made sense.

He tried to take a deep breath, but his chest burned; his _scar_ burned. “Father forbade Arcann from taking part,” he said, his voice hoarse. His hands were shaking, and he felt a tear fall onto his cheek; he reached up, horrified, and smeared it away. “He told- he told him he was to remain on Zakuul. And Arcann, he- he was so angry, and I couldn’t-”

He broke off, air hissing from between his clenched teeth as he fought the panic in his body.

“I couldn’t _leave_ him there,” he said, and it sounded like he was begging her to understand. “I had to- I needed, he- he wouldn’t have-” His chest burned like iron bars were wrapped around him, from the pain of trying to keep himself under control. “Father would have _killed_ him,” he blurted out. “Or, he would have- he would have done something foolish, and that would- justify his death, or something, and-”

“Thexan.” His eyes snapped open and he found her standing in front of him; he hadn’t even heard her cross the room. Her expression made him want to cringe back, afraid of the intensity he saw there. “No one’s death is ever justified,” she said solemnly, softly. She was so close that he could reach out and touch her, to prove she wasn’t a ghost and this wasn’t some hellish afterlife he was trapped in.

“I took him with me,” he said, babbling, because it was impossible to keep the poison inside of him now. “We went and- and we fought to prove that we were _better_ , and Arcann thought, why stay in the Outer Rim? We were better and we- we wanted father to acknowledge that, he did, he wanted to prove to him, so we went for the Core.”

“You went to Korriban,” she said.

He nodded, and he couldn’t look at her face any longer, so he stared over her shoulder, towards the window. He could pretend she couldn’t see him crying. “And then Arcann, he- he nearly died, and father didn’t care, and I think- I think I knew then. That’s when I knew.”

“Knew what?”

“That father was going to kill him,” he rasped, his eyes clenched tightly shut as if that could stop the tears. “And I couldn’t- I couldn’t live with myself, if Arcann died and I lived.”

There was silence for a long moment, as if Ona’la was slowly putting the final pieces into place, and then she said “You didn’t try to kill your father.”

He was shaking, trembling from the force of holding back the storm inside of him. “No.”

“Arcann tried to kill your father.”

He nodded jerkily, his chest heaving from the erratic breaths he managed to draw in past the panic.

“You stopped him, and he struck you-”

“It was an accident,” he said, the words a raw, agonised whisper. “He didn’t mean to.”

“And your father... rewarded him? For striking you down?”

He couldn’t keep it inside any longer- he _broke_ , a miserable, anguished sob escaping from him before he could stop it, and then he was sobbing, horrified and humiliated and broken in front of the woman who should have been his greatest enemy. “I didn’t want to die,” he choked out, “but I couldn’t let Arcann die. It was easier for it to be me.”

“ _Thexan_.” He felt her palm against his cheek, and then her thumb was wiping away the tears beneath his eyes as she leaned in to catch his gaze. “You’ve told me I can’t touch you without your consent, so I’m asking you first- may I hug you, right now? Or would you prefer I left you alone?”

If he’d felt pathetic a moment ago, it was nothing compared to the shudder of weakness that passed through him then at the suggestion that she might leave. “Don’t go,” he slurred, hating himself for it and too exhausted to care. “Please?”

When she wrapped her arms around him a moment later, he was panicked enough to stand ramrod stiff, teetering on the edge of hysterical; but then he felt her hands smooth up his back, and the immense and unquestionable sense of _safety_ at being in her arms, and he knew there was no point in fighting it.

She murmured softly to him as he wept- inconsequential things, he had no ability to retain information at that point anyway,- and she let him cling to her while she held him gently. She didn’t seem to care about the shoulder of her robes and the mess he made of them- neither did she seem to care about how much of his weight she was bearing as he slowly ran out of strength and slumped further and further against her.

He was weak. He was pathetic. He was hollow and broken and ruined and-

“You are none of those things,” Ona’la whispered, her lips close to his ear where she held him against her. He had no idea whether he’d spoken them aloud or whether he was just so chaotically out of control that she’d read his thoughts with ease. “You’re going to survive, Thexan.”

“I miss him,” he rasped, and she ran her hand in comforting circles over his back.

“I know you do.”

“I ruined everything-”

“You ruined _nothing_ ,” she said, her other hand cradling the back of his head. She was so soft. So warm and so soft. “You love him, and sometimes the people we love hurt us. It’s going to be alright- I _promise_ you.”

* * *

He didn’t remember falling asleep- it was all a bit of a painful, hollow blur, his head pounding so hard he could feel his pulse throbbing in his temple, and as he rolled over in the bed and found it still dark outside, he had to blink to try to reorient himself.

There was a little holomessage on the digital display next to his bed, and he rubbed blearily at his eyes to try and clear them; they were so sore to touch that he winced, and it took him a moment for his vision to settle enough to make out the message.

_There’s myocaine tablets under the glass, for your headache. I had the house droid undress you for bed, so your dignity is intact. If you need anything at all, even just company, I’m just in the next room._

He half expected it to be signed in an elegant flourish. The memories of the evening came flooding back to him in a painful, ugly rush, and he pressed his face down into the pillow with his eyes clenched tightly shut.

After a few minutes, he gave up the fight and reached for the myocaine, and then he rolled over and turned his back on the comforting message. That she had taken the time to write. Because of course she had stopped to think about the distress he’d be in after waking.

Because that was what she did.

He kept his eyes closed and lied to himself and said it didn’t matter.


	17. Chapter 17

_Yavin 4, Yavin System, Outer Rim Territories_

Tahrin closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose, fighting back a sigh with difficulty. “Vowrawn, while I appreciate your confidence in me, a seat on the Dark Council is not something I desire in the slightest,” she said patiently.

“My dear Lord Dara, I think at some point there has to come an acknowledgement that you are one of _the_ most powerful individuals remaining in the Empire-”

“My strength and abilities do not outweigh the fact that I am simply _not_ interested.”

Deep within the crumbling ruins she had claimed as her own- one of the innumerable temples erected across the moon by the ancient Massassi in their deification of the Dark Lords of old, whose ghosts still stalked restlessly in the caverns and swampy groves in the wilder parts of the forests- Tahrin sat in the chamber she had converted to be her war room. She _hated_ the name, far too melodramatic for her tastes, but her attempts to bestow a more sensible title upon it- the control room, the tactics room, the surveillance room, _why does it need a damned name at all Gabriel it’s not sentient_ \- had been most heartily overridden by Vette and Jaesa and Gabriel, who seemed to delight in the melodramatic.

She’d objected, of course, but her capitulation was inevitable; she could no more say no to them than she could move the stars in the sky.

The room itself would not have been out of place on the command deck of a Harrower-class dreadnought, a technological lair fitted with some of the most advanced military computational equipment in the galaxy. With Quinn’s careful research and discreet purchasing through third and fourth parties and puppet accounts, she was slowly assembling a base of operations with the capacity to stand as a neutral- and covert- power in the region.

If certain _allies_ were inclined to leave well enough alone, of course.

“You may lie to yourself, my dear, but please- have some respect for my own intelligence.” Vowrawn’s eyes, even over the holo, glittered with interest. The galactic map, with its intricately detailed placement of all known fleet locations for the three major powers, had minimized to an inset screen in the table, and Vowrawn’s holoprojection proudly took its place, dominating the room. “The rest of the Dark Council might be blind to your quiet accumulation of power since Baras’ defeat, but it has not escaped _my_ notice.”

She knew better than to react to his dramatic statements. “Since it _has_ apparently escaped your notice, Vowrawn, I will remind you that we are currently at war,” she said, utterly unconcerned by his jab at her. “It is not peculiar for any one Darth to establish themselves with a personal fleet or military contingent, even in peacetime. In a time of war-”

“I have it on good authority that you made contact with Moff Pyron,” he said. “Snatching up the scraps of Nox’s estate before her body is even cold, my dear?”

Tahrin gritted her teeth; she’d have to have a word to Quinn about their security arrangements, to determine where such a leak could have come from. “You and I both know that Nox is not dead, Vowrawn, and if you are hoping to achieve something with your cryptic enquiries, you know you will get nowhere. I abhor this sophistry- speak plainly and be done with it.”

“I do not know how much more direct I can be- I believe it is in the best interest of the Empire for you to take a seat on the Dark Council.”

“Vowrawn-”

“You wouldn’t even have to ask,” Vowrawn said loftily, almost dismissively. “If you walked in to the Dark Council chambers and announced you were taking one of the vacant seats, I assure you, no one would gainsay you.”

From somewhere close at hand, Tahrin felt the unmistakeable ripple in the Force that was the reappearance of a ghost. Not an uncommon occurrence on Yavin 4, given the moon’s bloody and terrible history, but there was only one ghost that was both bold enough and powerful enough to trespass on the mesa that she had claimed as her own.

And a terse political conversation with long-reaching ramifications for the entire galaxy was most certainly _not_ what she wanted her listening in on.

If she was lucky, perhaps she’d go and flit about with the children, just as amused by them as they were with her. Both Constance and Vaane were showing increasing talent with their Force sensitivity already, and their burgeoning and occasionally destructive powers were a source of great delight for the twins.

And their grandmother.

“Lord Dara?”

“Mm?” She shook herself, refocusing on the holo image before her. “My apologies, Vowrawn, something caught my attention.”

“Oh?”

She waved a hand dismissively. “Nothing of import,” she said, even as she caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of her eye. “I understand what it is that you are asking, Vowrawn, but what I do not understand is _why_ you are so determined to have me on the Dark Council. We both know my presence would vastly overshadow your own, so why push so persistently for a rival who will eclipse you?”

“I have always admired your frankness, my dear- there are few who would so candidly declare themselves to be my superior and expect me not to take it as an insult.”

On the far side of the room, the shimmering outline of a humanoid figure took shape, like the warping lines of heat that rose in the distance above Tatooine’s deserts. Tahrin did her best to ignore her, hoping above all else that she wouldn’t want to insert herself into the conversation. “That’s not an answer, Vowrawn,” she said.

He sighed, rather dramatically. “Very well, then,” he said. “I have not made it this far while so many of my peers have passed on out of sheer dumb luck- an ego is all well and good, but I find living to be _far_ much more preferable. What good is my wealth and influence to me if I am dead?”

“Vowrawn,” she said warningly, drumming her fingers on the arm of her chair.

“The Empire cannot survive in its current state,” he said bluntly. “As much as I enjoy the benefits entitled to me as a member of the Dark Council, I have no interest in ruling this shambling mess, or trying to rally the weeping masses towards some common goal.”

Tahrin’s gaze focused past the holo image of Vowrawn in time to see her mother’s face finally appear in the twisting haze that was the Force apparition on the far side of the war room. She held back a sigh of dismay at the delighted and vaguely predatory smile on her face.

She rubbed at her forehead, trying to think of how best to rush the conversation towards an end before Vowrawn realised they were not alone. “So it is not so much that you want me to take a seat on the Council for the good of the Empire,” she said, watching her mother’s slow progression around the room. As a Force apparition, there was a limit to what she could interact with in the world around her, but it didn’t stop her from relentlessly unsettling her with her attempts. “Rather, it’s more that you want to protect your investment without accepting any of the responsibility, and the best way to do so is to install a more influential leader than yourself.”

Vowrawn beamed at her through the holo. “I’m so glad we understand one another, my dear.”

“I am not a figurehead, Vowrawn,” she said, her tone deathly serious. “And nor am I a puppet.”

“I wouldn’t _dream_ of suggesting such a thing, my Lord Wrath.”

“Then perhaps stop wasting your time coddling me for a role I will not take, and have the Dark Council look to itself for guidance- as it is supposed to.”

For the first time in their conversation, Vowrawn looked displeased. “There are _four_ empty seats on the Council, Wrath,” he said, his tone flat. “We have no Emperor, no Imperial Guard- and half the bureaucracy of the Empire was lost on Ziost. Our capital world is a desolate wasteland, and our ancestral homeworld has been decimated by concurrent attacks by the Republic, and the Eternal Empire. That we have not already collapsed to anarchy is a miracle of unprecedented scale.”

“Lord Beniko would make a fine addition to the Council,” she snapped in response. “As would Lord Thane, or the younger Lord Jen’zuska. Or even Lord Cytharat. Drag Baras out of the depths of Belsavis and reinstate him.”

Her mother was circling ever closer, her interest undeniable, and Tahrin could all but hear what she wanted to say already- _it has been far too long since a Dara sat on the Council._

“If you are looking for someone to unite and inspire the people, Vowrawn, I suggest you look elsewhere,” she continued. “My work is best done out of sight, and out of mind.”

She saw Vowrawn still abruptly, his head cocked to the side as if listening intently, and Tahrin knew he’d finally sensed Vivaane’s presence in the room, even through the vast distance between Yavin and Dromund Kaas. A calculating gleam came over his features, tempered by a subtle flicker of emotion that most people seemed to experience in her mother’s presence.

_Fear._

“And what _work_ would that be, my dear?” he said, his voice silken and polite. “Something so important that you would turn your back on the Empire that empowered you in the first place?”

It had never been clear to her who exactly amongst the Dark Council was aware of her origins- sometimes she suspected that they were entirely in the dark on the matter, and that it had all been a hush-hush affair organised by Vitiate’s most loyal servants. Other times, such as now, she had to wonder whether Vowrawn’s innocent question was a subtle jab at the life she had been crafted for and resolutely rejected, whether it was a reminder that the Empire had quite literally _made_ her and that ergo she owed it her unquestioning loyalty.

Especially given that his comment had come on the tail of sensing her mother’s presence in the room.

“My work is only _ever_ in pursuit of stabilizing the Empire, Vowrawn, and I’ll thank you not to suggest otherwise,” she snapped. “If I choose not to share the finer details with you, that is my prerogative.”

“My dear, I only ask out of concern for how I might assist you- surely it would be better if we pooled our resources and avoided any risk of inadvertently interfering with one another’s plans.”

Tahrin was rapidly running out of patience- even more so when her mother’s features appeared opposite her, vaguely warped as she viewed them through the distortion of Vowrawn’s holo silhouette. “Vivaane,” she growled warningly.

Her mother, of course, paid her no heed.

“It is condescending beyond belief to refer to your better with an infantilizing address such as ‘ _my dear_ ’,” Vivaane drawled, her voice echoing in that coldly hollow fashion she’d come to expect from a Force apparition. “I suggest referring to this one as ‘ _little man_ ’ until it learns its place.”

On the holo, Vowrawn stiffened in offense, but plastered a false smile on his face. “You did not warn me we had company, Lord Wrath,” he said pleasantly, almost ingratiatingly. “I am at a loss, won’t you introduce me to our guest?”

Tahrin covered her eyes with her hand. “I’m quite certain you know who it is, Vowrawn,” she said, wishing the ground would swallow her up. Or, more preferably, that it would swallow Vivaane up, so that her spirit could return to the earth with her body and cease her endless meddling.

“Ah, but etiquette must be observed, especially in the presence of _such_ a _woman_ -”

“He is a clever one,” Vivaane said abruptly, circling around the table like a predator circling prey. “And he is careful. He is a worm, however. I do not understand how a snivelling gundark such as this could rise to the heights of the Council. Those seats used to be reserved for those of us with the potential to rise to godhood.”

“ _Mother_ ,” Tahrin ground out from between clenched teeth, “go and spoil the twins.”

“They are napping.”

“That was my very polite way of telling you to _get out_.”

Vivaane sniffed haughtily, but there was a gleefully malicious smile on her face that belied her poor attempt at acting hurt. There was a skin crawling shiver that passed over Tahrin’s skin, and then she was gone, the Force settling back into place where she’d withdrawn from.

“What a delightful woman,” Vowrawn drawled, an amused lilt to his voice.

“Enough,” Tahrin spat, all but twitching with frustration. “Vowrawn, I will not take a seat on the Council- asking me repeatedly does not endear you to me. I would also ask that you trust _my_ intelligence enough to know that I would not be so foolish as to upset your schemes.”

“We would still be a greater threat to Zakuul and the Republic if we combined our strengths.”

She sighed wearily. “Be that as it may,” she said, “if the inevitable should come to pass, and Zakuul’s declaration of war proves too much for the Empire, it is in the best interest of all that I remain a hidden asset. I am far more effective and far more valuable to the Empire as a resource kept from sight, to strike when least expected. That is the point of the Wrath, is it not? The blade in the shadows?”

For a moment she was worried that her pleas had fallen on deaf ears, and that her tentative alliance with Vowrawn was finally at an end; if the Empire fell, as she fully expected it to at this point, then all Vowrawn needed to do to secure himself a lofty position as a puppet to Arcann would be to give up her location and her schemes. They both knew that, at the end of the day, Vivaane was right- Tahrin was superior to him, even without a Council seat to elevate her.

The Wrath was a far greater prize for Zakuul than a Dark Council member.

But then he smiled, sighing dramatically yet again as he waved his hand in her direction, as if he was brushing aside an errant insect. “As always, my Lord Wrath, I defer to your unrivalled grasp of the galactic playing field,” he said magnanimously. “But please, if there is anything I can do for you, you only need but ask, my dear.”

Her mother’s words lingered in her ears. “Stop calling me ‘ _my dear_ ’,” she said, before she lost the inclination.

“Why, my Lord Wrath, I can absolutely assure you, my use of pleasantries comes from nothing but the deepest respect for you, as an old man expresses his fondness for a young woman he sees as-”

“Stop it,” she said bluntly. “I am not more inclined to trust you simply because you treat me with some sort of belittling affection that you might express to a granddaughter. If your ego cannot comprehend the thought of treating me as an equal, then your ego is not welcome in our conversations.”

He was still smiling, but his eyes were glittering with annoyance. “As you say, Lord Wrath,” he said, after a moment’s pause. “Is there anything you would have of me, before I take my leave?”

Tahrin breathed out slowly through her nose, trying to determine how best to end their discussion. She couldn’t truly afford to lose Vowrawn’s support, not now, but neither could she risk losing face in front of him by softening her stance.

“Keep watch on Acina,” she said finally, carefully. “Her ambitions are... questionable, to my mind.”

Vowrawn’s snort of amusement set her at ease. “On that, at least, we have an accord,” he said. “Claiming the destruction of the Dread Masters as her own genius; her arrogance offends _me_ , and I have next to nothing to do with her.”

Tahrin’s mouth quirked with the urge to smile, and she carefully smoothed it back down. “Stars forfend that another Darth might offend _you_ , Lord Vowrawn,” she said wryly. “Paragon of patience and understanding that you are.”

“I am so glad that we have so much mutual common ground, Lord Wrath,” he said with a smirk.

“If that will be all?”

He bowed to her. “Of course. Thank you for taking the time to hear my... concerns.”

“As always, Lord Vowrawn, it is a pleasure.” She disconnected the call before he had a chance to drag the encounter on any longer, and in the silence that followed she slumped back into the chair, mentally exhausted.

Yavin 4 was never silent, though, not really- the forest moon was alive with wild and brutal things, from the Massassi themselves to the bizarre and terrifying creatures that had been crafted with Sith alchemy. The native wildlife had evolved in response to such monstrous threats, until the entirety of the moon seemed to be constantly at war with itself, humid and damp and crackling with wild energy and violence.

The mesa she had claimed as her own loomed over the surrounding jungles, riddled with caverns and tunnels that her people were tirelessly stabilizing in order to shelter her growing army. Or resistance. Or whatever it was, since she wasn’t actively certain who she was resisting at this point, even if she was growing increasingly convinced that her future lay entwined with Zakuul, and Vitiate’s three natural children. Forging her own path and being the master of her own destiny was still a terrifying prospect, and even despite her fears she still seemed unable to step away from the galactic stage, unable to slide backwards into the shadows and disappear, to let the higher powers bicker and scream and waste millions of lives in the pursuit of mutual destruction.

She had resources. She had her own people, her own intelligence network, her own fleet. It would be easy, so easy, to slip away. Fortify herself and leave the galaxy to grind itself down to dust in the endless monotony of war.

Disquieted by her thoughts, and unpleasantly sticky from the humidity- they had air filters working at peak capacity to help ventilate the vast computer network, but it still fell far short of coping with the thick warm damp of Yavin 4’s atmosphere- she pushed herself up from the chair, pausing briefly to skim through the updates that had come through from her network during the time she’d been engaged in conversation with Vowrawn. Trifling updates, no significant movement anywhere- although Quinn would have risked her ire to interrupt her, had there been anything substantial to report.

She made note of a few details she meant to query further with him later, during their daily holoconference, and then turned her back on the room, taking the winding stairs back to the surface. Her thoughts were even more morose by the time she exited from behind the waterfall at the back of the mesa, nodding briefly in acknowledgement at the soldiers unloading cargo from a freighter on the landing pad when they stopped to salute her.

On the bridge back to the main complex, she paused, resting her hands on the warm stone as she stared out over the jungle. She wanted it to feel like home, she wanted to look out over the rippling carpet of trees and feel a sense of connection- this was her sanctuary, a place that she had undeniably claimed as her own, a place where she was trying to build something better, both for herself and for her children. She wanted to feel proud, and defiant, and safe.

She wasn’t sure she felt anything.

There was something tugging at her awareness, like a pebble dropped into the water on the far side of a still pond- she could feel the ripples, but she couldn’t make out the source of the disturbance. She could guess, though, given her mother’s ongoing propensity for mischief; in many ways, their relationship was an utter reversal of her expectations, with Vivaane often acting the part of the wayward, hyper-energised child, and Tahrin the long-suffering and ever patient parent. Any disturbance on the mesa, she always attributed to Vivaane first and foremost, and made corrections later if she was wrong.

The main hall was empty as she passed through it, a rare enough sight these days that she would have preferred to stop and indulge in the solitude; as it was, she kept walking, taking the stairs down to the lower suites that had been converted to a nursery for the twins. She had no idea what sort of arrangements children required- her own childhood had been painfully lacking in anything that could provide her with context for a normal upbringing, after all- so she’d left the details to Vette and Jaesa, predominantly. The result was a surprisingly tasteful suite that was comfortable, colourful and almost minimalistic (much to Tahrin’s _immense_ relief) and with the additionally amusing outcome wherein Jaesa had been ferociously maternal ever since. _Clucky_ , that was the word Gabriel said with a laugh, that made Vette groan and hide her face in the cushions. Jaesa was _clucky_.

She had no idea if that was still the case, caught up as the two of them were in Ryloth’s battle for independence from the Hutts, but she suspected it wasn’t the end of that particular conversation.

In the nursery, the twins were just as she’d left them, fast asleep in their cribs; the nursery droid was standing to attention by the door, and if she didn’t know better she’d assume the machine was cringing away from the other figure in the room.

Namely, Vivaane.

She’d made more of an effort to project a stable form, her features sharper and her clothing several centuries out of fashion; she was standing between the two cribs, an absent look of concentration on her face as she stared down into the first- Connie’s crib, by the looks of it. Tahrin drew up beside her, her gaze falling on Vaane instead, his long, dark eyelashes fluttering gently against his pale brown cheeks as he dreamed.

“I wish I could hold them,” Vivaane said abruptly, without preamble.

Tahrin glanced at her, but Vivaane’s expression gave nothing away. Just because she was far more explosive with her emotions did not make her any easier to read. “They adore you,” she said, doing her best not to sound awkward with the intimacy of the moment. “I’m sure they are grateful merely for your love and attention.”

Vivaane snorted in amusement. “ _Anyone_ would be grateful for my attention,” she said loftily, as if it were fact.

It was difficult not to roll her eyes, but she managed. “Infants have no concept of galactic infamy, mother,” she said. “I don’t think it’s quite the same for them.”

“Have a care, my love, you almost sound sarcastic, and I’d been led to believe you had no sense of humour.”

If felt odd, to have conversations like this. To be able to talk to her mother, as tenuous a connection as theirs was; she’d long ago given up any hope of finding a biological family, and had accepted herself as some sort of bizarre genetic non-sequitur. She was a creation, a project, a resource- this she knew to be true.

She hadn’t ever given thought to where Vitiate’s servants might have procured the DNA that had spawned her in the first place.

She hadn’t ever thought about what it might mean to have a mother, especially in a time when she was still trying to muddle through motherhood herself.

“You are ever so broody,” Vivaane said, interrupting her train of thought. “However did a child of mine come to be so morose?”

“Clearly I lacked your sterling influence in my formative years,” she said drolly.

Vivaane had no answer for that, apparently, and they lapsed into silence; Tahrin was nearly convinced she should leave her to it, to watch over the children while they napped or amuse herself as she saw fit. Certainly she was not needed her for any reason, not with the nursery droid on hand to care for the children and Vivaane to mind them, and there were any number of things she could be doing instead. She had a contact in the Ascendancy she needed to speak to regarding the recent strained relationship between the Empire and the Chiss, and Jaesa had sent through some diagnostics on the Hutt fleet in the far Outer Rim that was worth running through with Quinn later today. And she hadn’t heard directly from Pierce’s sister, but perhaps she’d sent something to him instead of to her-

“What’s it like?”

Tahrin shook herself, pulling herself out of her thoughts with difficulty. “Beg pardon?” she asked.

“What’s it like?” Vivaane repeated, waving her hand vaguely towards the cribs. “Babies. Parenting, all that.”

She glanced at her, and found that Vivaane was rather pointedly not looking at her. It was a difficult concept, sometimes, acknowledging the apparition of a woman who looked younger than her as her mother. It was both impressive and somewhat heartbreaking to think of all that she’d achieved in her young years, the brilliance and the arrogance that had driven her to heights previously undreamed of, but that had inevitably been her downfall as well.

She’d died before she’d even begun to come into her own, and before she’d had a chance to live the life she’d been destined for. “I was under the impression it was of no interest to you,” she said.

“Humour me, just this once.”

Tahrin breathed out slowly, considering her answer even as she reached down to brush Vaane’s hair away from his eyes. “Motherhood is...” She grimaced slightly, running her fingers over Vaane’s forehead, the messy curls soft beneath her touch. “A difficult concept,” she finished after a long moment of silence. “I would have hoped that, after this many years, I would have a better grasp of this all.”

“They are alive, are they not? They are healthy?” Vivaane shrugged. “You are actively involved in raising them, and seeing to their welfare- you’ve done a far sight better than I ever did.”

Tahrin looked pointedly at her. “I hardly think you were in a position to object to Vitiate’s experiments,” she said. “Death does tend to inconvenience us in that regard.”

Vivanne, for all that she normally seemed unflappable, looked pensive. “I could have stayed with Bastila,” she said bluntly, no self-pity or softness in the statement. She was, for all of her rather erratic nature, consistent in her honesty. “It was easier to leave, to pretend that I had something far more grand and important to do than to raise a child. I was a coward when it mattered most.”

“Destroying Vitiate was not a grand and important goal?” In the crib, Vaane began to fuss, and Tahrin absently soothed him, one hand rubbing over his little belly.

“Destroying Vitiate was beyond me, even at the height of my powers,” Vivaane said. “I was an arrogant and foolish young woman, with ambitions far outweighing my common sense.” Vivaane looked sideways at her. “No idea how you turned out so sensible.”

The flippancy with which she said it made Tahrin uncomfortable. “Years of relentless physical and emotional abuse tends to do that to a child,” she said, just as bluntly as her mother’s own confession.

Vivanne’s expression was pinched, and it was the first time Tahrin had ever seen her in any state even close to grief or remorse. “There is nothing I regret more than what you were forced to endure,” she said. “If I could undo the damage done to you, I would hand myself over to Vitiate in a heartbeat.”

Tahrin pulled Vaane’s blanket up over him again, preferring to watch her son sleep peacefully than try to engage with her mother. “While I appreciate the sentiment, both you and Vitiate are dead,” she said.

“Vitiate is no more dead than I am.”

“Can you at _least_ acknowledge the point I’m trying to make?” Tahrin snapped irritably, sighing in exasperation when her raised voice made Vaane whimper in his sleep; after a moment, the whimper turned into a pitiful little wail, needy and heart-wrenching, and she scooped him up out of his bed, letting him rest against her shoulder while she patted him gently on the back. He soon settled again, lulled to calm by the rocking motion she set. “I don’t require your apologies for what happened, Vivaane.”

“Just because you don’t want to lay the blame at my feet doesn’t mean I don’t feel the crushing guilt of it,” Vivaane said. “If I’d been more careful, or if I’d stayed with Bastila, or if I’d never gone after Vitiate and fallen in the first place-”

“Then our conversation would be both irrelevant and nonexistent, because if you had acted in a different manner at any point in history, I would not exist,” Tahrin pointed out. Vaane’s tiny snores were like buzzing little squeaks against her neck, and he’d twisted a sticky little fist into the collar of her tunic. She absently turned her head to the side and pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

“Allow an old lady the selfishness of her regrets,” she said, the words somewhat ruined by her apparent youthfulness. Granted, she suspected that even if Vivaane _had_ lived to old age, her vanity would have prompted her to appear far younger as a Force apparition anyway. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had anything but my anger and my hatred for company.”

Tahrin had no sensible answer for that, not when it roused a pang of miserable longing in her for what might have been, in different circumstances. There was no point in dwelling on the past, or on fantastical scenarios that would never come to be; she was alive, and she had built a family of her own, complete with friends who she loved as completely as she was able to. She had children, and a partner who was content with her stilted, uncomfortable attempts at affection, and she was safe.

Wasting time wondering what her life might have been like with her mother present helped no one.

When Vaane had sufficiently settled again, she carefully pried his little fingers apart to release her tunic, and then set him back in his crib; he fussed briefly, before falling back asleep, and she tucked his blanket up around him gently.

“Do you really think you can defeat them?”

Vivaane’s abrupt question didn’t really take her by surprise; she was coming to realise that her mother tended to speak her mind, and that sometimes her thoughts lurched from one topic to the other without a great deal of warning. “I think I can provide an alternative,” she said, shrugging as she stepped away from the cribs, leaving the twins to sleep. Vivanne followed her. “I think the Republic and the Empire are both physically and spiritually exhausted after fifty years of war, and that Vitiate knew what he was doing in biding his time with Zakuul.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I _think_ ,” Tahrin said, somewhat irritably, “that Zakuul cannot be defeated as things currently stand. Not now, not with our resources spread so thin and morale so low and no unity to fall back on. Not with Vitiate’s influence guiding Zakuul.”

Vivaane sighed, somewhat dramatically; as a Force apparition she didn’t even need to breathe, so the sigh was entirely for dramatic effect. Tahrin held her tongue. “So you hope to provide an _alternative_ ,” she said, and Tahrin couldn’t tell if the emphasis on the word was a mockery or not. “An option that appeals to both Jedi and Sith.”

“An option that is _neither_ Jedi nor Sith,” Tahrin corrected. “You were both Jedi _and_ Sith. I am neither.”

Her mother was silent for a long moment, and Tahrin nearly left their conversation at that. Vivaane had been flitting about the mesa long enough to have a solid understanding of the work she was doing, without pointless questions about her intentions, so she really didn’t understand the abrupt interrogation as to her motives.

She turned to leave.

“You’ve a far more sensible head on your shoulders than I ever had,” Vivaane said honestly. “All of the power with none of the arrogance.”

Tahrin glanced back at her. “That is-”

“I’m proud of you,” Vivaane said, her face open and her expression almost... yearning. “I wish I could have saved you from him, and spared you the years of abuse he inflicted on you, but I’m so proud that you saved yourself. It brings me joy beyond belief to have you as my daughter.”

Tahrin could only stare.

“I used to regret my arrogance, thinking that I’d allowed Vitiate to craft a weapon because I was vain enough to believe I’d be around to stop his ambitions,” she continued. “It never occurred to me that he’d be able to hurt me, long after I was dead, by using my foolishness against me.”

“I am not your _mistake_ , Vivaane,” Tahrin said, and she hated the way her voice shook.

Vivaane cocked her head to the side, something mournful in her eyes. “No,” she agreed, “even if my part in it all was limited to a DNA sample in a petri dish, you were and are the greatest thing I could have hoped to accomplish in my life.”

They stared at each other, and Vivaane was the first to look away. She didn’t say goodbye, simply allowing herself to fade from view, the ripples of the Force settling back into place to cover her absence.

Tahrin stood there for a long time, listening to the soft sounds of her children sleeping, and then turned and climbed back up the stairs towards the main hall. There was work to be done, and Zakuul would not rest; she knew Vitiate too well to assume he would not have already activated his contingency plans.

The galaxy would not pause for her to weep for the girl she could have been.


	18. Chapter 18

The war began sometime during the night. 

Undoubtedly it had already begun in earnest some time prior to that, or one could plausibly even claim that it was just an ongoing escalation of hostilities that had been in place for months now. Arcann’s formal declaration of war had just solidified what most of the galaxy had already known for some time- that the Great Galactic War was evolving yet again, and that there was still no end in sight to the conflict. 

Even knowing it was coming, Ona’la still slept poorly. 

She’d set her personal comms unit to silent before she went to bed, but every single rumble throughout the night woke her without fail; reports coming in from the Outer Rim of the Eternal Fleet sweeping through entire sectors, a steady march coreward. She got up half a dozen times throughout the night, fumbling in the darkness for the comms unit if only to make it stop vibrating across her nightstand. 

She made notes, she replied to urgent messages that appeared in her inbox, she pulled up her star charts and scribbled her own analysis all over them as each new update came through on the movement of the Eternal Fleet. Some of it would probably make utterly no sense at all come the morning, but better to be left trying to decipher something insensible than to lose everything upon waking, like a dream slithering away like water through her fingers. 

So far the Fleet had been observed moving in two directions- one force striking through from Wild Space to the edge of the Western Reaches, angling in towards the Galactic Core, while the other seemed to be swinging wide to maintain a presence in the Outer Rim. Reports of the size of each Fleet seemed to vary wildly, with conflicting information coming from numerous panicked sources, made all the more difficult by the lack of a stronger Republic presence in the far Outer Rim. 

Most of the reports were coming in from independent worlds and systems, quiet farming communities and unregistered smuggling dens taking advantage of the lax law enforcement out on the edges of civilized space. While there was a need to take the wild accounts of “ _a sky full of ships, blocking out the suns_ ” with a grain of salt, at least until the claims could be verified by official sources, they all knew that Zakuul was quite capable of fielding a fleet that would match such claims. 

No word on surface invasions so far, but the two arms of the fleet had engaged without hesitation with every vessel they’d encountered. Pirate craft, civilian freighters, there was even word of a Mandalorian battlecruiser being reduced to a debris field somewhere near to Bespin. There was only one Republic capital ship in the region, the _Benevolent Pride_ , and from the reports she was receiving from Republic High Command, it looked like it was holding position above Belsavis; no doubt that decision was going to receive immense criticism in the Senate once it became public knowledge, not when it could have been standing in defence of more urban populations like Eriadu and Bespin and Gerrenthum, but Ona’la couldn’t honestly say she would have made a different choice, were the decision up to her. One single capital ship, even with a full complement of Liberator-class starfighters, would not stand a chance against even a fraction of the Eternal Fleet.

Marr’s flagship, and the seven ships accompanying it, certainly hadn’t. The war had only been declared a mere eighteen hours earlier- throwing away a capital ship in the opening hours of the conflict was the kind of wasteful recklessness they could not afford in a long-term engagement.

It didn’t mean she felt any better about it, watching the updates roll through from the Outer Rim, reports of civilian casualties and merchant fleets destroyed and neutral space stations obliterated. She still took a moment to mourn each lost life, to grieve for those who fell without a defender on hand to protect them. 

Just because she knew it was impossible for her to intervene at such a vast distance, didn’t mean she didn’t regret each and every death as if it was her own failing. There was no balance to be had in such widespread slaughter and destruction, nothing that she could justify as the natural order of life and death and the energy of both within the Force. 

It was cruelty, and it was evil, and it was proof of Vitiate’s lingering influence over his children, his cold, insidious magnetism driving them even after his physical form had passed on.

She tried not to dwell on that thought either, though it was harder and harder each time she tried to close her eyes to catch another hour or so of sleep. 

The house droid pottered about whenever she crawled out of bed, trying to offer her beverages and other refreshments, trying to change the sheets on the mattress whenever she turned her back for two minutes, enthusiastically running through a breakfast menu regardless of whether she answered it or not. She hadn’t the heart to send it away, not when it seemed so determined to help however it could, but convincing it that she did _not_ need an entire platter of sandwiches at three o’clock in the morning was far more trouble than she was hoping for. 

At least she had something to snack on, to keep her vaguely distracted from the escalating horrors coming through on the secure Council channel and the Republic High Command channel. She never turned down food if she could help it, anyway; too many years spent starving in the mines, food denied to her by the foreman in a hope to quell her defiance.

And so she wasted the hours of the night, pretending to sleep and managing little, moaning in frustration whenever the rumble of the comms dragged her from whatever light doze she’d drifted off into. She wandered barefoot about the room as she skimmed through the reports, rubbing at the base of her lekku to try and ease the ache in her skull; she sat up properly at the desk, trying to be efficient and sensible as she took her notes and replied to the messages that required her answers, but that was impossible for long periods of time. 

Even more importantly, she tried to keep her activities as quiet as possible, and she kept the lights dimmed; just because she was having no luck at sleeping didn’t mean she wanted the same fate for Thexan. 

_Thexan_. She sighed and rubbed at her forehead, her eyes aching from lack of sleep; glancing at the clock on her bedside revealed it to be hours away from any sort of appropriate time to be up and about, and she grimaced. Her head was aching and her eyes were aching and her _heart_ was aching, and while the first two were somewhat easily fixed with a few myocaine tablets, the latter was less so. 

She probably could have made assumptions about Thexan’s childhood based on his behaviour, and her own knowledge of Vitiate’s treatment of the child slaves he had bound to his will in Korriban, which she had such horrifying first hand experience with thanks to Kira. But it was quite another thing entirely to hear of the trauma and the pain firsthand, to see a man like Thexan- a prince and a general and a warrior, a literal nightmare for so many people- reduced to such a state just trying to recount it. 

He _was_ a war criminal. And he _was_ a murderer, responsible for millions of deaths as a result of Zakuul’s invasion- an invasion for which he had quite openly confessed to being the instigator for in the first place- and he was the son of the greatest evil the galaxy had seen since the Rakatan Empire. She couldn’t absolve him of the sins he had committed, but...

But he was so painfully mortal, almost fragile in the way he expected and accepted the worst for himself, and despite what she might have expected a half year ago, there was the potential for _good_ buried within him, under decades of scar tissue and suspicion and hurt. It was hardly unprecedented, for the Jedi to seek to redeem the most powerful amongst their enemies- Nomi Sunrider had fought and redeemed the fallen Jedi Ulic Qel-Droma, Bastila Shan had most famously returned Revan to the light, and she, well... She, of course, had foolishly believed without a trace of doubt in her heart that she could bring light to Vitiate’s withered spirit.

There was still a part of her that believed it, deep down. Even having witnessed the enormity of his atrocities, even having been forced to endure the immensity of the dark side during her captivity with him, she still had hope.

Hope was her greatest strength, after all. 

Which left her with Thexan- a warrior and a mass murderer, a conqueror, but still a man, still raw and broken and in so much pain that her heart ached even hours later recalling it. She couldn’t afford to have her attention divided in a time such as this, and her focus should have been on the people of the Republic. Except that she had fought for Thexan, because it had felt like the right thing to do, and now she had a ruined, traitorous prince asleep in her guest room, and she couldn’t very well take him with her to the front lines of a war against his home. 

She groaned and let her head fall back against the wall, rubbing wearily at her eyes as she absently tossed a datapad onto the pillow beside her. She’d given up trying to sit at the desk, finding herself nodding off more often than not, and had thought at least to sit comfortably in bed while she kept herself up to date on the movements of Zakuul. Instead she kept finding her thoughts straying to Thexan, to the overwhelming sense of loss and grief he’d collapsed under as he’d tried to confess to her. It had been powerful enough to hurt _her_ , through the odd connection they seemed to have maintained since waking together on the _Illustrious_ , so she could barely even comprehend how painful it must have been for him. 

Even now, as he slept on the other side of the wall, she could feel it tugging at her, the subtle ebb and flow of his sorrow as his sleeping mind tried to process it all. She wrapped her arms around herself, drawing her knees up to her chest; she’d lost her family so long ago that the wound in her heart had long ago scabbed over, nothing more than a deep scar that ached in particularly poignant moments. To bear witness to Thexan’s grief, to share even a fraction of it, was almost overwhelming. 

She wanted to help him- she _so badly_ wanted to help him, to give him the opportunity to recover from his past and move forward into a calmer, more independent future. The way he’d clung to her, his arms tight around her and his fingers pressing hard into her back, was like a drowning man clinging to a lifejacket, terrified to let go and convinced it would only hold him afloat for so long. 

Helping people was what she did, was what she had dedicated her whole life to, even before she’d had the Jedi to thank for setting her feet on such a path. She had always fought for those who needed it most, always extended a hand in kindness and understanding. 

But Thexan...

She hadn’t felt this sort of... _urge_ , perhaps that was the right word, with anyone else in recent memory, if at all. It was always a delight and a blessing when she was able to help someone find their way to the light, from Bengel Morr to Lord Praven to the entirety of her strike team that so many had been ready to assume lost in the months after being captured in Vitiate’s space station. She’d persisted long past the point of sense and reason with Angral, and Scourge, and the former had caused her nothing but untold suffering as a result, while the latter had continued to frustrate her to the point of tears for years thanks to her inability to admit defeat. 

Even with Vitiate, she’d been consumed with a naive zeal when she sought to confront him, a defiance that was two parts cringe-worthy innocence for every one part righteous idealism. 

With Thexan, it was a yearning made up of so many complicated, awkward feelings- guilt and longing and grief and hope, all tangled up around her heart and blurring the line between her desire to do good and her desire for... him? Was the sense of attachment she felt some form of desire, or was it just the confusion arising from the strange connection that had been forged between them in the moment she’d rescued him? 

His pain roused something in her, a need to protect and comfort and soothe that she honestly had no precedent for. It was vaguely similar to the fierce protectiveness she’d felt when Vitiate and the First Son had tried to control Kira’s mind to turn her against her, or perhaps the consuming drive she’d felt to defend the younglings when Angral and Malgus had led the attack on the temple so many years ago. 

But then it was more than that and far more complicated and distracting, and she wanted to know that he trusted her, that he felt safe with her. 

She didn’t know why she felt any of that- but she wanted it. _Badly._

She was startled out of her peculiar musings by the insistent rumbling of her comm- not a message this time, but an actual holo. She rubbed quickly at her face, hoping that her eyes were not so terribly bloodshot that it would be noticeable, and hoped doubly that whoever thought it appropriate to call her at this hour of the night wouldn’t object to her answering in her night robes. 

Stifling a yawn, she accepted the call and set the comm down on the jumble of blankets before her; a familiar figure appeared a moment later, shimmering in the blue static and just as serene and comforting as she was in person. Ona’la felt herself slump back against the wall in relief, the tension bleeding slowly out of her muscles as she relaxed. “Lady Amaara,” she said, smiling wearily. “You took a gamble assuming I’d be awake.”

The togruta Jedi Master smiled gently, her hands clasped before her. “You’ve been answering messages for the past hour,” she said pointedly. “Unless you’re adept enough to respond to Council missives in your sleep, I didn’t think it was _that_ much of a gamble.” 

The yawn caught up to her, and she covered her mouth as she turned her head away out of politeness. “At this point, I wouldn’t really be surprised if I was,” she admitted. “What are you doing up, anyway?”

“It’s mid-morning here on Tython.” Which, honestly, she should have picked up on given that Lady Amaara was fully dressed, complete with the delicately elaborate jewellery she wore around her montrals and lekku. She looked so carefully composed and at ease, the very ideal of a Jedi Master of the High Council. “It’d be more concerning if I _was_ still in bed.”

Ona’la rubbed away the grit from her eyes, glancing at the clock. “I have absolutely lost all sense of time since I got back.”

“I couldn’t tell,” Amaara said teasingly. 

“Oh hush,” Ona’la grumbled, attempting a mock frown before grinning again. “What precisely were you calling for, that it couldn’t wait until we were both out of bed?” 

“I was calling to congratulate you,” Amaara said, “although I don’t think any of us were surprised to see you sitting in on a Council session, to be honest. It was an honour well overdue.”

Surprised by the kind words, Ona’la felt the tips of her lekku curl up slightly, her skin prickling with embarrassment. “I- thank you, Amaara,” she said hesitantly. “Forgive me, though, I can’t see how a call of such a casual nature could warrant the urgency.” 

Amaara sighed, and for a moment there was a flicker of grief over her features, before she hid it from sight. “I’ll be blunt with you, Ona’la,” she said. “Grandmaster Satele tells me that you have plans to return to Tython?”

“That’s right- I need to replace my lightsaber, and I was hoping that there were some holocrons in the archives that survived the last-”

“I would ask that you refrain from journeying to Tython, Ona’la.”

She blinked, startled by the interruption and the utterly bizarre request. “I’m... sorry?” 

Amaara did her the courtesy not to hide her meaning in stammered apologies and insincere babble. “I would ask you not to return to Tython, at this point in time,” she repeated calmly. “Not while Prince Thexan travels with you.” 

“You cannot _forbid_ me from travelling to the Jedi’s ancestral homeworld,” she said incredulously.

“I cannot,” Amaara agreed simply. “Nor would I attempt to. You are our Battlemaster, and now you share a seat on the Council- these are not the demands of a superior, but the request of an equal. A friend, I would hope. And as a friend, I’m asking you- please do not bring Prince Thexan to Tython.”

It hurt, and she knew it was ridiculous that she should be hurt by such a request, because she knew such a request could not come lightly. “May I ask why?”

She sighed softly. “Please do not think this is an attack on your Prince’s character, or on your decision to defend him,” she said quietly. “For what it’s worth, I have nothing but the deepest admiration for your conviction and your faith. My request comes out of a desire to protect what little we have left in the way of a sanctuary.”

When Ona’la didn’t respond, she continued. “Twice now, the Sith have defiled our temples, destroyed our history and our knowledge, slaughtered our younglings,” she said, her expression solemn. “And while you were not in a position to witness it at the time, we have seen the Eternal Empire utterly devastate Korriban to such an extent that it makes the destruction of our temples look like petty squabbles in comparison. If Zakuul turns such destructive energy against Tython, when we have already lost so much-” 

“Thexan would _never_ -”

“You will notice I said _Zakuul_ , Battlemaster, not Prince Thexan,” Amaara said firmly. “And your unshakeable faith in his character is curious, given that he most certainly _was_ responsible for just such an attack on the Sith homeworld.”

She had a point, and it was devastating- she had no idea what might inspire Thexan to treachery, not really. Just because she trusted her instincts and believed him capable of great good did not mean that he would not see an opportunity to ingratiate himself into his brother’s good graces again. What better way to win back the heart and trust of his brother than to hand him the Jedi homeworld on a silver platter?

“You are right,” she said softly, and it broke her heart to say it. “I apologise for my ill-thought words.”

Amaara’s expression was solemn, but there was still a kindness there. “Your faith in people is not a weakness, Battlemaster,” she said gently. “And I take no offense at your need to defend him- just please, understand that I too am trying to protect something more than myself, and I must think of the Jedi as a whole before I think of the safety of any one person.”

“I do understand. I- thank you. For being honest with me.”

“If there is anything you would have from the archives, I will have some of the padawans procure it for you and send it to your holo-account. You have only to send us a list of your needs.”

Ona’la rubbed wearily at her eyes. “I needed to craft my new lightsaber,” she said, somewhat woefully.

To this, Amaara looked sympathetic. “I understand your desire to use the Forge, Ona’la, but you know as well as I that a Jedi does not truly need the Forge in order to construct a saber,” she said. “Adhering to tradition and honouring where we have come from is all well and good, but in a time of war, we must seek practicality above nostalgia.” She smiled faintly. “And you are one of our most powerful adherents, after all- it should be second nature for you to craft your lightsaber unaided.”

The fact that it was true didn’t mean it didn’t feel any less like she’d abruptly had a rug pulled out from under her feet. “I- yes. I can manage.” The prospect filled her with more dread than she wanted to admit to, but Amaara was right; the Jedi order had been crafting lightsabers for centuries without the aid of the Forge, and it was only since Tython’s rediscovery a decade ago that had allowed them to return to such a tradition in the first place. “Hopefully I’ll have a chance to visit in the future without Thexan present- it would be nice to walk the glades again.”

Amaara quite visibly hesitated. “You... aren’t aware, are you?”

There was something ominous in her tone, something that made Ona’la’s lekku prickle uncomfortable. “I- I don’t know? What should I be aware of?”

“The Council made the decision several weeks ago to shield Tython from Zakuul’s reach,” she said, and for the first time Ona’la sensed a trace of fear in her. “We’ve been making plans to begin self sufficiency, and we’ve made arrangements with Kalikori village. In a few weeks, we’ll go into isolation, in the hope that Zakuul won’t find us.”

If she’d thought that the mild panic at not being able to visit the closest thing she had to a home was distressing, it was nothing compared to the surge of desperation in her at the prospect of losing such a home altogether. “But you can’t- there’s no way you can just _erase_ the presence of a planet-”

“Tython is far too close to the Galactic Core for safe travel without the guidance of a Force sensitive navigator,” Amaara said, “so their droid ships will not be able to find us without the benefit of the hyperlanes. And Grandmaster Satele and Master Adhi have taken steps to destroy the accessibility of current star maps.”

“... I’m sorry? I don’t understand.”

“Master Adhi has amongst her acquaintances a scientist with an artificial intelligence platform of remarkable capability. As I understand it, the AI has been working for the past week or so to erase all references to Tython on current navigational programs, across the entirety of the holonet- obviously, there are ships that rely upon older data chip maps, rather than downloading maps, so it is likely we will miss some, and breaking through Imperial Intelligence firewalls to erase their files is extraordinarily difficult, but they’ve been making some progress, I’m told. Every starship, every government agency, every merchant database, every mercenary outfit- if it’s stored electronically on a platform accessible from a remote digital link, the AI has been able to remove it.”

Ona’la could only stare. “But... you’re going to isolate yourselves? Willingly?”

Amaara smiled sadly. “I have a generation of younglings to think of, Battlemaster,” she said softly. “They deserve a chance to grow up in peace and in safety, coming into their powers without the threat of a massacre hanging over their heads once again. If the cost for their safety is my self imposed exile, then so be it.”

“Will you have contact with the outside galaxy at all?”

“It’s not likely, no. Zakuul could very easily trace the source of any transmissions, so once we’ve finished receiving supplies to tide us over until we become self sufficient...” She shrugged, somewhat helplessly. “Tython will go dark. The Jedi Order _must_ survive this, so this is a task I take on with great pride.” 

Ona’la tried to consider accepting such a task herself- being asked to sit idle, hidden from the galaxy with no knowledge of how the war was progressing. Trying to stay positive for the sake of the children, while always glancing over her shoulder and wondering when the dark shadow of Zakuul would finally fall upon them. 

Would such a gamble even work? Would they truly be able to mask Tython’s presence from Zakuul- even if she did trust the Barsen’thor’s experience with shielding in the Force, it was an impossibly daunting task, to hide an entire _planet_. 

To be so isolated, so alone, never knowing if help was nearby or whether anyone would even hear her should she call for help...

“I’m so sorry, Amaara,” she whispered, trying to blink back the tears that had gathered on her lashes. “You were calling to say goodbye, weren’t you?”

Amaara seemed a great deal calmer than she would have been in her place. “In a sense, I suppose- I have every faith, however, that in a few weeks time you will have triumphed valiantly and the threat will have passed, and we can rejoin the galactic community and laugh about how foolish we were in our panic.”

“Why didn’t you tell me immediately? I would have understood.”

“It has been the decision of the Council to keep this operation as discreet as possible,” she said. “There will be no grand announcement, no public statement- Tython will simply vanish, as much as it is able to.”

“Is there- I mean, you won’t be alone, will you? There are other Council Masters there, other Knights?”

“Master Fane is still here, so between the two of us we should manage- we have a few dozen Knights, some of whom were here for recovery and are not fit for the front lines in any case. And there’s nearly two hundred younglings and unassigned padawans-”

“Goddess have mercy,” Ona’la whispered, closing her eyes. 

“But we have come to an agreement with the twi’lek matriarch of Kalikori- she remembers you fondly, after all- and we’ll be sharing resources, and working together to keep both communities safe.”

“Ranna.” The memory of the young woman forced so abruptly into leadership, suspicious and desperate to help her people, still tugged at her heart. “Please give her my best?”

Amaara smiled. “I’ll let her know that you’ll be visiting to tell her that yourself soon enough,” she said. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing you in no time at all, with Zakuul subdued and the Republic at peace once more.”

It was a terrible lie- an optimistic one, but a lie nonetheless, and they both knew it. The Republic did not have the strength to stand against Zakuul, and Ona’la honestly couldn’t say in her heart that she believed they had a chance even if they were to combine their resources with the Sith. 

She needed to have hope, her greatest strength. But for the Council to have already accepted that Tython was as good as lost, that the Jedi would not survive an onslaught as the Sith had endured...

What hope could she find in that? In accepting defeat before the battle had already begun?

“Ona’la?”

She wiped quickly at her eyes, offering a weak smile. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I was lost in my thoughts for a moment there.”

“It’s going to be alright, Ona’la,” Amaara said. “I have every faith in you and the rest of the Council, and in the strength of the Republic. The Jedi will survive this, and will go on to thrive.”

Ona’la let out a shaky laugh. “I can’t help but feel I should be the one comforting _you_.”

Amaara’s smile was kind, if weary. “I’ve had a number of weeks to come to terms with the prospect,” she said. “And as much as I shall miss the stars and the quiet of space, I have a duty to the Order. If your place is to be on the battlefield in the months to come, then mine shall be standing guard over the younglings.”

She nodded, feeling another tear slip down her cheek and reaching up to brush it away. “Please give my regards to Master Fane,” she said, her voice breaking a little. “He was always kind to me, when I was a padawan.” 

“I will.” Amaara waited a moment, as if she was giving her time to compose herself. “Do not succumb to despair, my dear- this is a moment of great upheaval and uncertainty for us all, but it is not the end. Have faith, both in yourself and in the Republic.”

Ona’la took a deep breath, and smiled. “May the Force be with you, Lady Amaara.”

“May the Force be with you, Master Ona’la.”

The holo disconnected, and the light faded, leaving her in relative darkness once more. The bed around her was covered in scattered datapads and an old datacron she’d pulled out of storage, and the mostly untouched platter of sandwiches was sitting waiting on the desk closest to her bed. Without the comm unit to illuminate the room, it all looked so jagged and uncomfortable, a disorganised mess that couldn’t even begin to coordinate into something helpful-

She realised she was crying a moment later, and put a hand up to her mouth in the hope that she’d be able to muffle any noise she made while she wept; she didn’t want the house droid to come surging into her room in dismay, trying to tend to her.

Or even worse, she didn’t want Thexan to see her in a state like this. Goddess only knew what he’d think.

She held her eyes tightly closed and let herself cry, so terrifyingly overwhelmed by the immensity of it all. They were at war, and her peers had already given up any thought of a Republic victory and had secretly made preparations to prevent the extinction of the Order. 

She had no idea what she was supposed to do, no idea which direction to turn to when so many things were collapsing around her. 

She was _frightened_. 

“Master Orgus,” she whispered, hiccuping on her tears, “I know you said that we would not meet again in this lifetime, and that your part in my story was at an end, but I- I _miss_ you so _much_.” 

There was no answer in the silence of the room, not that she had expected one at all. She might have hoped, but she didn’t expect. 

“Everything just- I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing, or how I’m supposed to stay strong through all of this, and everyone wants me to be this perfect ideal and I don’t know how to win this war and I don’t know how to help people and I don’t know what I’m _doing_.” 

She had no idea if it was helping at all, to babble into the darkness, but it was like a spring bubbling up from the earth- the pressure had been released and now there was no stopping it. 

“You always knew- you always had a plan, or even when things went wrong, you never panicked, and you never made me feel like I couldn’t do something.” She stopped for a moment, swallowing rapidly to try and fight down a stronger storm of weeping. “I just- I miss you? And I, um... I don’t know, I don’t know how you did it, because I just- I don’t know how to stay positive about this, any of it, but the whole galaxy is looking to me for hope and I-”

A sob broke free of her, and she covered her mouth in a panic, terrified that it would have been enough to alert the house droid. After a half a minute, when she had better control over herself again, she let her hand fall back into her lap again. Her shoulders were shaking from the silent weeping, and she was trembling, but at least she wasn’t at risk of wailing until the ceiling fell in on her. 

“I wish you were here,” she whispered, staring down at the outline of her hands in the darkness. “I wish you were here, and that I hadn’t failed you, because I haven’t done anything right at all since I lost you, and yet everyone seems to think everything I do is fine, and I don’t- I _can’t_ work out, _anything_ , it’s all such a mess and I don’t know what to do...”

He didn’t answer.

She didn’t expect him to- but she had hoped. 

After a time, the worst of the weeping subsided, and she was left hollowed out and exhausted, her head aching and her nose terribly stuffed up. She was quite foolishly shaky, probably due to the lack of sleep, and when she reached for the glass of water she’d set beside her bed, she was frustrated to find her hand shaking too much to pick it up-

-until another hand placed it firmly in hers, and warm fingers closed around hers to encourage her to hold it. 

Her gaze snapped up in alarm to find Thexan standing beside her, the sheet from his own bed draped rather inelegantly around him as if he was cold or attempting to protect his modesty, and his expression was blank and non-judgemental as he helped her hold onto the drink.

She hadn’t even heard him enter the room. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” she whispered hoarsely, unable to pull her hand out of his. He was warm, and his grip was gentler than she’d expected. 

He shrugged, and if anything he looked vaguely uncomfortable. “It’s fine,” he said, his own voice rough from sleep. The blanket slipped slightly, his shoulder bare in the weak light of the room. 

“I tried to keep things quiet-”

“The noise didn’t wake me,” he said, somewhat bluntly. He wasn’t looking at her, instead looking slightly past her, as if he desperately didn’t want to make eye contact. 

She sniffed, wincing at the brief flare of pain, as she tried to puzzle it out. “Then what-?”

He sighed, and he looked pained to admit to it. “I thought it-” His jaw clenched, and his gaze slid to hers for a fraction of a moment before darting away again. “I felt it.” 

She frowned, opening her mouth to query him further, and-

“ _Oh_.”

In the darkness, she saw his eyebrows go up, as if he was amused. “ _Oh_ indeed.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said, horrified that her momentary weakness had intruded on his privacy. “I had no idea- stars above, I promise, I’ll do my best for it to never happen again.”

He straightened abruptly, letting go of her hand; thankfully she managed to keep her hold on the glass, and not throw water all over herself. “Do you always do that?”

“Do what?”

“The selflessness. Accepting that everything is always your fault forever. I didn’t even have to really tell you anything and you were already apologizing to me.” 

The line of questioning was blunt, and abrupt, and coming on the heels of her already feeling fragile, she wasn’t sure how to answer it. “I... I don’t understand, are you _angry_ at me for apologizing to you?”

Thexan made a noise of frustration. “Don’t you ever think about _yourself_?”

“That’s hardly an attitude a Jedi should adopt.”

“It is if they don’t want to get _killed_ ,” he said, his voice verging on a snarl. 

Her head was spinning- it was the middle of the night, and she’d barely slept, and in the past day her entire world had been turned upside down. They were at war, and she was on the Jedi High Council, and she was about to lose the closest thing to a home she’d ever had. The Council hadn’t thought to trust her with the news about Tython, and she had no idea when she would see Amaara again, and she was emotionally battered and bruised from helping Thexan through his grief and pain the night before. 

She was exhausted. 

“I don’t know what you want from me, Thexan,” she said softly.

He stared at her for a long moment, and then turned and stalked back towards the door, hunched over in the blanket like some hulking avian creature. 

“I’d like us to be friends,” she called after him, and that was enough to make him pause. She licked her lips, and forged onwards. “I just think- we’re to spend a lot of time together, it would be easier if we could find common ground, yes? Could we try?”

She heard him breathe out once, sharply.

“ _No_.”

And then he was gone, obviously back to his own room to attempt to sleep again, presuming her own fluctuating emotional state didn’t keep him awake.

She had no idea what she was supposed to do.

Goddess help her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lady Amaara of Kiros belongs to the very lovely bioticbootyshaker (sithrightsactivist on tumblr) and kindly consented to my stealing her for the story. Tython could not be in better hands <3
> 
> Also, as a little side note, trying to hide Tython from an enemy has been attempted in the ancient past- the Je'daii, the precursors to the Jedi, tried to hide Tython from the Rakata during the twilight years of the Rakatan Empire.


	19. Chapter 19

Thexan didn’t sleep again that night. 

He tried, _valiantly_ \- he tossed and he turned and he kicked the sheets away when he got twisted and hot and clammy with sweat. His head ached, and he was exhausted, and sleep would have been at least some kind of brief reprieve from the madness that was his life at the moment. 

This was a world where an immortal entity of evil was his father, but was also dead; a world where the Republic spent a fortune keeping him safe so that they could justify executing him, a world where the woman who should have more reason to hate him than any other living being in the galaxy continued to offer him hope... he didn’t understand _any_ of it. All he wanted was to fall asleep and remain adrift until the world had righted itself again, so that he didn’t feel so lost and bereft and angry and _frightened_ every single waking moment of the day.

He was so tired, and so confused, and he honestly couldn’t say he knew himself with any certainty anymore. 

Which was why it’d been so easy to mistake Ona’la’s emotional turmoil for Arcann’s.

When he’d clawed his way up from sleep, confused and aching as if he’d spent the day in the training arena, he’d thought in his sluggish state of mind that the wash of unfamiliar grief and fear he’d been woken by had been his brother. It wouldn’t have been the first time Arcann’s moods had been enough to affect him, and he’d been on his feet before he’d even realised what it was he was doing, lurching out of bed in a half panic before he was even truly awake. 

Or before he realised that the grief was not a familiar emotion he associated with his brother, a man of sharper impressions, of greater highs and darker lows. It was a sensation of longing and loneliness and fear, all tangled up together in him in a manner that had him spinning awkwardly on the spot, almost losing his balance in the darkness as he sought to understand the source of the discomfort.

In the darkness, in his sleep addled confusion, it took him several long heartbeats to realise the upheaval was not a reflection of Arcann- who was no longer several rooms away and instead half a galaxy away- but instead a projection of _Ona’la’s_ frailty. 

And that had stunned him, honestly- he’d stood there in the darkness with the sheets twisted forcefully around his torso, still half attached to the bed, and he’d tried to calm his breathing as he came to terms with the fact that it wasn’t his brother at all, but _Ona’la_ in his head and _Ona’la_ making his heart pound in his chest with shared sorrow and fear. The Battlemaster, who had always been one step ahead of him at least, who had held her own against he and Arcann working in tandem, who had given her all to defend him from his enemies and from himself...

... she was _crying_? 

He’d already been on his feet anyway, so it hadn’t been too much of an issue to convince himself to cross the room in a daze, his feet taking him out into the common area and towards her door without much interference on his part. And then- _stars above had he ever had a more foolish idea than this_ \- he’d been standing in the door to her room, and she hadn’t looked up because she’d had her face buried in her hands as she’d wept, and he’d stood there frozen like some kind of voyeuristic letch, too confused to step forward and comfort her but too uneasy to just slide back out of the room and pretend he’d never witnessed this. 

And then he’d made a bigger fool of himself by attempting to help her, and then the surge of relief he’d felt from her when she’d realised she wasn’t alone was... well, it was gutting, if he had to be honest. He’d given her no reason to trust him, and she still found some kind of comfort in his company even despite that, and-

_“I’d like us to be friends.”_

She didn’t even stop to think about what it was she was offering.

He didn’t sleep again that night. 

As he lay there in the muted darkness, trying to ignore his headache and trying to pretend he was about to fall asleep again in any moment, two things became abundantly clear to him. One, that he had desperately taken for granted the vast solitude and quiet of his living quarters in The Spire back home in Zakuul, because the constant background noise of the immense city-planet beyond the walls of the apartment was something he could not block out no matter how hard he tried. It hadn’t been so bad in the depths of the Senate Tower, buried under millions of tons of flexisteel and duracrete; there for the most part it had just been the interminable rumble of the generators in the lower levels of the Tower, and the humming, buzzing crackle of the numerous electrofields blocking off the doors and hallways.

Here, in this apartment, it was different; in all likelihood it had been built to the finest standards of craftsmanship, and the sound dampening aspects of the architecture were second to none, but he was used to the cold sterility of his father’s palace, far above the planet’s surface. There were no soaring lanes of traffic, no shared facilities with other tenants. He could hear the endless hum of thousands of speeders zipping past, the sound of variances in speeds and size clearly audible to him. It was a bombardment of sensation, far more so than even the celebration that had welcomed Ona’la home to the Republic, because this was constant and repetitive and inescapable, even when he buried his head under the pillows. 

It was like a dripping tap. 

And even if he were able to escape from the unending drone of the sky traffic, the second problem would have plagued him still- namely, that although the apartment had the distinct soullessness of a luxury hotel, it still most definitely _smelled_ like her. He wasn’t sure whether he was horrified that he was able to recognise Ona’la’s scent, or whether he was disgusted with himself that it had taken him the better part of an evening to acknowledge it, because it was just such a familiar scent to him by now and _stars above he should not be so familiar and at ease with the smell of a woman like her._

Even with the windows in the room set to the highest filters, he could tell it was growing light outside- or, rather, that the sun was rising, because it didn’t seem to ever get truly dark on Coruscant. The planet never slept, and the lights stayed on to match the hectic lifestyle of the self proclaimed centre of the galaxy. Darkness and silence, how he missed them already. After a time, he could hear movement out in the common areas of the apartment despite the early hour, and concluded that Ona’la had had just as much trouble falling back asleep as he had. 

_“I’d like us to be friends.”_

What was wrong with her, honestly? Why did she keep looking at him and thinking there was anything in him worthy of her time and effort? The entirety of his life, his purpose had been defined by Arcann, his need to love him and protect him and help him when he stumbled; he’d failed at that, abysmally so, so how could she possibly see something salvageable when all he saw was failure and regret?

He lay in bed and listened to her moving about, to the quiet murmur that he assumed was her conversing with the house droid. That was something to think about- she’d mentioned in her note that the house droid had helped him into bed, and when he’d stumbled out of the room hours earlier in response to her distress, he had indeed found himself wearing nothing more than his trousers. He sat up, scanning the room for the rest of his clothing and wincing when the movement made his head ache anew. 

There were no obvious piles of clothing that he could see, not even a carefully folded stack on the nearby bureau, so with a withheld sigh he crawled to the edge of the bed and swung his legs over onto the floor. For a moment, he held his head in his hands, his elbows resting on his knees as he hunched over and waited for the worst of the pain to pass. 

Or for this bewildering nightmare to end, whichever came first. He wouldn’t be fussy at this point. 

With a pained grunt, he climbed to his feet, staggering a step as his head spun again. Once the room had stopped seething around him, he lowered his hands to his side, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his palm as he tried his best not to limp across the room towards what looked like a set of cabinets. With any luck, there’d at least be guest robes until he could work out where his clothes had gotten to. 

The cabinets opened easily at a single touch, the doors swinging wide as if on a sensor, and he was relieved to see assorted fabrics hanging in what appeared to be a wardrobe; the momentary sense of relief began to ebb, however, when he took in the quality of the materials, and the consistency of the cut. He flicked through the assorted outfits, pulling them off their hangers with growing unease as he held each one up for inspection. 

These weren’t guest robes- they were all of them fashioned from the finest silks and leathers and wools, nothing that would be out of place in the ensemble of a senator. _Or a prince_ , a voice whispered in the back of his head. There were at least a dozen outfits, and as he dug through the wardrobe, hurling clothing over his shoulder as he went, he found several pairs of boots as well, all of them made with the high quality leather; one pair even bore the tell-tale designs of an Emori artisan, a sign of the overall cost and quality of the wardrobe’s contents. Undergarments and socks and stockings and at least one thermal bodyglove for travel in colder climates and-

He didn’t need to try them all on to know they were in his size. He could even hazard a guess at how she’d arranged for his measurements, given that his black robes had been taken from him several times now under the pretense of mending them. 

Ona’la had organized for an entire wardrobe of clothing for him, without even knowing whether he’d be granted into her custody. A dozen outfits, that had to have cost her tens of thousands, if not _hundreds_ of thousands, of credits, when she’d specifically made a point of the fact that as a Jedi she did not have a great deal in the way of possessions. 

She didn’t even have a damn _home_ , and she’d bought him silk and jewels to wear. 

The frustration and the confusion bubbled up in him, and with a growl, he snatched up as many of the discarded items of clothing as he could, a mound of fabric clutched tight to his chest as he staggered back to his feet and stomped towards the door. Thank Izax for the sensor operated doors, because his hands were quite occupied at that point with the kingdom’s ransom worth of clothing she’d had made for him. 

_Why would she-_

It didn’t matter. _None_ of it mattered, because it was foolish and it was very obvious what she was trying to do, and he wasn’t going to fall for it. 

In the first common area, the one that had shown signs of occupancy late last night when she’d shown him through, Ona’la was seated on a couch, a datapad in one hand and a steaming cup of what smelled like caf in the other. She glanced over in his direction at his entrance, clearly alerted by the sound of the door opening, and he was at least ruthlessly pleased to see her do a double take. 

He stormed up to her and dropped the armful of clothing onto the small table in front of her. “What is this?”

For a moment, her eyes widened at the sight of him, her gaze flicking momentarily to his bare torso- undoubtedly horrified by the ugly scar that slit him in two- before returning to his face, concern clouding her expression. “Thexan? Is something wrong?”

“What do you mean ‘ _is something wrong_ ’? Of _course_ something’s wrong!”

She set aside her drink and her datapad instantly, coming to her feet and smoothing her hands down the front of her pants. She was hardly any more dressed than he was, a silken robe thrown on over the top of sleep garments, and for a moment he was distracted by the sight of her neck, and the scars that wrapped around her throat; normally she went to such great pains to hide her scars from view, that it threw him off to see the rich blue curve of her neck, and the shallow dip in her skin at the base of her throat. 

Ona’la picked up one of the garments on top of the pile, holding it up as if for inspection; it was a deep blue shirt, the leather soft and supple, and it was clearly meant to mimic the style of his black attire. “Does it not fit?” she asked, her concern evident in her voice. “I was certain-”

“I don’t want them,” he said bluntly.

She blinked, clearly not expecting such an answer; he could almost hear the wheels turning in her head as she processed his response. “You don’t- what? Why?”

“Do I need a reason?” He rather pointedly pushed the pile further across the table towards her. “I _don’t_ want them.”

Watching him closely over the top of the shirt she was holding, she let out a breath slowly through her nose. “I’ve offended you,” she said, not so much a question as a statement.

Thexan gritted his teeth. “I’m not offended,” he said. “I just don’t want your gifts _or_ your charity.”

Ona’la’s eyes flashed with irritation. “Thexan...” she began, almost warningly. 

“Nobody does this for someone without wanting something in return,” he snapped, and the blurted accusation apparently surprised both of them, if the way her eyes widened again was anything to go by. 

She bit her lip, her expression thoughtful, and he tried his best not to blush when he realised he’d been staring at her mouth in response. “I’m not trying to manipulate you, Thexan,” she said quietly.

“Then what are you doing with all this?” he asked, gesturing to the mess.

“I _want_ you to be comfortable.”

“Why? So I’ll let my guard down, relax so that you can strike?” 

She looked at him as if he’d suddenly sprouted tentacles. “Thexan, do you honestly still think after all this time that I want nothing more than to deceive you? I want you to be comfortable, and I want you to have things of your own so that you can regain a sense of purpose and personhood. My giving you clothing is not a cause for such distress.”

“Clothing, perhaps, but this?” He picked up the item on top of the pile. “Shimmersilk? Emoris leatherwork? Hand-stitched gold embroidery?”

“Is it not to your liking?” she asked, and he was so frustrated by the fact that she asked it so honestly, and is she truly believed the only thing wrong with it all was his personal preference.

He wanted to shake her, so he refrained himself from doing so and shook the shirt instead. “Why are you _doing_ this?” 

“Giving you clothing? What do you expect to wear?”

“Giving me- _these_!”

“I don’t understand.”

Stars above, she could not honestly be this innocently naive. “You told me last night that you didn’t have much in the way of wealth, or worldly possessions, and yet you went out of your way to organise a wardrobe for me simply on the vague chance that I _might_ not be executed.”

She looked so confused. “That’s right- I didn’t want you to be left wanting, or uncomfortable, when you were set free.”

_When_. Not if- _when_. As if she hadn’t had a single moment of doubt that he was going to be safe with her. “How did you afford it all, then?”

A shuttered look came over her face, more cautious now, and she took a moment to answer. “I don’t see how that’s relevant,” she said carefully. 

He threw the shirt back down again. “People don’t just spend tens of thousands of credits on other people unless they want something,” he said bluntly. “Nobody _does_ that.”

“ _I_ do that.”

“Then you’re trying to control me!” he said, the words rising to a shout. 

“ _Actually, Thexan_ ,” she said, her voice almost deathly cold, “I’m trying to do precisely the opposite- I’m _trying_ to give you the opportunity to define yourself outside of the suffocating confines of the persona you crafted to survive your father’s abuse.”

He reeled back as if she’d slapped him, the words slamming into him like a rampaging gundark; for a moment he could only stare, chest heaving as adrenalin and fear pumped through him, disgusted to realise just how very vulnerable he felt. 

“You don’t know anything about my father,” he whispered, hating himself for how his voice shook. “And you don’t know anything about me.”

The ice faded from her eyes, her gaze softening as she watched him; after a moment she sighed, rubbing wearily at her temples. “I’m trying, Thexan,” she said softly. “I’m really trying, but I can’t help if you won’t let me.”

“I don’t _want_ your help.”

“Well, tell me what you do want, and how I can help you achieve it.”

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself. “I want to go home,” he said.

The robe slipped slightly on her shoulder, exposing even more of her soft blue skin before she absently reached up to fix it. “You know I can’t let you go home, Thexan,” she said. “We are at war with your home, as per your brother’s declaration yesterday. He’s already made significant forays into the Far Outer Rim and the Western Reaches. It’s not safe for you to go home.”

Just because the words stung didn’t mean they weren’t true. “You don’t know that,” he said roughly. 

Ona’la’s look was sympathetic- _pitying_ , a nasty voice in his head whispered- and he had to commend her for not sighing in frustration. “Your brother condemned you as an imposter, Thexan,” she reminded him gently. 

“For political reasons, obviously. He can’t admit that the Republic stole me right out from under his nose when-”

“When he’d very publicly declared you dead already, after attempting to kill you himself?”

He stared at her. “I told you,” he said quietly, “that that was an accident.”

“Was denying you in a public address an accident, too?”

“Are you trying to help me, Ona’la, or belittle me for my faith in my brother?”

She now looked like she was the one who wanted to shake him. “I’m not trying to mock you for your love for Arcann, I’m trying to make your situation as plain to you as I possibly can,” she said patiently, or at least with more patience than he would have had in her shoes. Was she wearing shoes? He glanced down before he could help himself, but the small table blocked her lower legs from view. She probably wasn’t wearing shoes, she was still in her sleep apparel after all. Stars above, why was he even obsessing over what she was _wearing_? “You know I can’t let you go home, and I don’t want to give your brother the opportunity to hurt you again.”

“Arcann would never hurt me.”

The look she gave him _was_ pitying, this time. “If such a mindset helps you to cope with your situation, then I’ll not dispute it. But I’m not going to stand by idly if he tries again.”

_I will protect you,_ was what she didn’t say. _I will stand between you and anything that will hurt you_. Just like she had on the speeder platform, when she’d stepped in front of a sniper’s shot for him. Just like she had in the courtroom when she’d offered up her own life as collateral should he attempt to escape. 

“Why are you doing this?” he asked softly. “What possible reason could you have for sacrificing so much for someone like me?” 

She looked at him quizzically. “I would do this for anyone,” she said, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world. “But you, I mean, you’ve-”

“I’ve what?”

Ona’la bit her lip again, the movement drawing his eyes down to her mouth a second time. “You’ve never had a chance before,” she said, holding a hand up to silence him when he opened his mouth to object. “No, I know, I know you were raised as a prince and what not, but you grew up so frightened of your father that you invaded numerous planets to gain his approval. You as much as told me that you were convinced he was going to kill your brother just because they didn’t get along. Do I approve of the violence you enacted as a result of your father’s abuse? No, not for a moment. But do I believe you should have the opportunity to atone for your actions and forge an identity for yourself outside of his influence? Absolutely.”

His mouth was still hanging open, and he snapped it shut with a loud clack of his teeth. “I’m not in the market for a conscience, Ona’la,” he said, from between gritted teeth. 

“How inconvenient for you- because you are direly in need of one, Thexan.”

With the greatest of restraint, he managed to limit his need to roar furiously to nothing but a hissed growl from between his teeth, spinning on his heel and stalking away from her. 

Izax forfend, she was _so insufferable._

He locked himself back in his room- _his_ room, what a novel thought, this was hardly even _her_ apartment, so it wasn’t like he could lay any claim to a single room- and stomped around the space for a good ten or fifteen minutes, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides as he fought to control his temper. Who was she to loftily declare that he was in need of _conscience_ , of _all_ things? His whole life had been about working to please his father and survive his whims, at what point was a _conscience_ any good in such a situation? 

How dare she judge him, for what he’d had to do endure and help his brother safely through? He’d given his _life_ to save his brother, so what in grey, formless hell did she think he was in need of a _conscience_? 

Infuriated and frustrated, he kicked at the remaining clothing on the floor, watching the colourful swathes of fabric scatter across the carpet, breathing heavily as he waited to see if his temper would subside. When he found his hands shaking, he grunted in annoyance and stalked instead into the small ensuite. 

Maybe if he stood underneath the shower head for long enough, the water would make him melt. 

He ran the water in the ‘fresher on the hottest setting he could manage, his skin going as red as the scar across his belly. It felt invigorating, and it cleared his head a little- not entirely, but enough that he wasn’t frothing in some mindless, directionless rage. Thank the stars the bathing facilities here on the far side of the galaxy were not so different from home, although admittedly thinking about the extravagantly large chamber in black marble and gold that passed as his private bathing suite back on Zakuul, the comparison with this simple cubicle that he could cross in two strides at most seemed a bit unbalanced. 

The towels were delightfully fluffy, and that just served to irritate him again; he dried himself off far more roughly than was necessary, the harsh pressure enough to leave him winded when he was too firm with the delicate scar. It was a weakness, and he had to push through it- his father had certainly never tolerated a shred of vulnerability, expecting them to push themselves far beyond the endurance levels of normal mortals. 

His father was dead, gone forever, but old habits were hard to shake.

He pushed through it, light-headed from the pain, and kept his head held high.

Trying to choose an outfit from amongst the loathsome _gifts_ she’d given him was arduous- normally the servants set out his clothes each morning, a subtle dictation from his father as to what was expected of him for the day ahead. The freedom to choose was bad enough, even worse when he was determined to find fault with absolutely everything, because he’d be damned if he gave Ona’la the satisfaction of wearing any of the garments she’d had made for him. 

_She’d had them made for him. She’d had them tailored especially for him. She’d clearly put careful thought and consideration into what to ask for, given that-_

With a snarl, he snatched up a pair of black leather trousers that at least had the benefit of looking like his original pants, tugging them up over his hips while he stared at the strewn clothing in frustration. In the end, he picked some kind of austere tunic, the fabric a dark peacock blue with the trimmings done in a dark black that shimmered under the light. A lot of the outfits were in quite neutral colours, similar to the Jedi propensity for plainness, he supposed. There was a small, petty part of him that enjoyed the brilliance of the blue, given his father’s preference for such starkly bleak greys and blacks and whites. 

Such a small defiance meant nothing, not here and not now- his father was dead, and he was tens of thousands of light years away from his home, and he was a grown man with the full capacity to choose his own clothing. 

Still. Smoothing his hands over his stomach, where the fabric sat flat against his scar, it was a peculiar thrill to be in a position to choose. His hands were shaking ever so slightly, and he told himself it was the remaining adrenalin from his anger.

He pulled on his own boots to finish the ensemble off, justifying it by telling himself they’d be more comfortable given that he’d worn them in, while carefully ignoring the fact that the same could have been said for the trousers; in honesty, there was a limit to what he wanted to accept from her today, or acknowledge that he’d accepted at least, so that at least he could pretend it was happening on his terms. 

Well then. He was dressed, and he’d bathed, and there wasn’t really a lot else he could do sequestered away in this room all day. He could be as humanly unpleasant as possible and make things generally difficult for Ona’la, but he was tired and he was frustrated and he was brimming with the need to _do_ something. Ideally that something would be confiscating a starship and returning to Zakuul, but he didn’t feel that had a high likelihood of success. 

The fact that they’d felt confident enough to leave him alone with Ona’la told him everything about his chances of safely escaping, given how obsessive they’d been about security in the last few weeks. 

He wasn’t going anywhere beyond the walls of this apartment without her explicit say-so, it seemed. 

He clenched his hands into fists at his side, gritting his teeth at the wave of frustration such thoughts raised in him; there was nothing else to be done, it seemed, but to find Ona’la and to see what she intended to do with him. 

_Her new pet_ , he thought bitterly. 

Ona’la was not in the first common area beyond his room, although some of the clothes that he’d left behind in his tantrum had been carefully folded and stacked on the small table near to where she’d been sitting. He had no idea whether that was her doing, or the droid’s, but it irked him all the same; such a calm and rational response to his childishness made him feel all the more like an undisciplined brat. 

For a brief moment, he felt a pang of guilt, wondering if Ona’la thought less of him for his display; it morphed quickly into a deeper longing, thinking instead of all the times he’d quietly dealt with Arcann’s tantrums and trying to guess whether the things he’d thought he’d been doing for his brother’s own good had actually made him feel _worse_ , like he did now. 

He pushed those thoughts down, and went to find Ona’la.

She was seated before the window in the vast hall she’d led him through the night before, a room he’d rightly assumed was supposed to be some kind of function hall for fancy parties and galas like most people in possession of a penthouse in the Senatorial Sector would be expected to host. It was just as sterile and lifeless as he’d thought, with carefully selected furniture and decorations that projected an air of easy wealth, but nothing that suggested any sort of soul or personal touch. 

In hindsight, his father’s palace had been rather similar. Even his private suites had been kept immaculately clean by the unseen servants, all personal touches swept carefully out of sight. But it had been _his_ space, _his_ sanctuary, that he could retreat to when things had been at their more frustrating and frightening. That counted for something. 

This apartment, Ona’la had all but confessed to him that she did not think of it as hers, that it was nothing more than a stopover. How could she relax in a place where she admitted to feeling like an interloper? 

He wandered over towards her, curious as to what she was doing- he could feel the tugging sensation in the Force, the tempting hints as to what she was up to, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. She had her back to him, resting back on her calves as she kneeled before the window, bathed in the warmth of the morning sunlight; as he drew up behind her, looking over her shoulder, he was able to see that she had the assorted pieces of an unassembled lightsaber before her, and a wooden tray with six shards of crystal of varying sizes and shapes.

“Hello, Thexan,” she said, not turning around to look at him; as he drew even with her, he could see that she had her eyes closed, as if concentrating. 

He glanced back at the jumble on the floor before her. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“Crafting my new lightsaber,” she said, a smile tugging at her lips as she opened one eye to scrutinize him. “You haven’t ever...?”

“I made _mine_ ,” he said sharply, abruptly wounded that she should think him so ignorant to the process. 

The hint turned into a full-blown smile, relaxed and inviting. “I should clarify- I assume the procedure is remarkably different for you, given how your people approach the Force. I meant to ask if you’d ever seen a _Jedi_ craft a lightsaber.” 

He scowled at her. “When would I ever have had the opportunity to watch a Jedi?” he asked in annoyance.

Ona’la rose up on her knees, startling him into taking a step back in alarm; but she didn’t climb to her feet, instead shuffling around so that she was kneeling sideways in the space before the window; she gestured to the spot opposite her. “Why don’t you join me?”

It felt like a trap- it was probably a trap. If he sat down with her and she had access to a lightsaber, what was to stop her from skewering him through the middle without a second thought? 

“It’s perfectly safe, I promise you,” she said, smiling warmly at him. “I don’t know what your construction process is like on Zakuul, but there’s no danger to bystanders with this.”

“We are not savages,” he muttered, but curiosity got the better of him and he cautiously sank down onto his knees in the space she’d gestured to. “We are far more technologically advanced than your Republic.”

She had her eyes closed again, but the tattooed eyebrows still rose in amusement. “Yes, you’ve made that abundantly clear on numerous occasions,” she said wryly. “I’ll keep my primitivism to myself and stop assuming there’s anything here that could startle you.”

He scowled again, the gesture somewhat wasted given that she had her eyes closed. “Why do you have so many crystals?” he asked instead. 

She breathed out slowly through her nose, and he had the sneaking suspicion that she was laughing at him. “Because I haven’t picked one yet,” she murmured. 

“Are you going to put all six in your lightsaber, then?”

He’d meant it sarcastically, a vague mockery, but she laughed all the same, the sound making his stomach lurch slightly. “Sadly, no,” she said, amused. “I can only imagine the rainbow coloured delight that would result from that. Well, for the two or three seconds before it overloaded the focussing crystal and triggered a reaction in the diatium power cell and exploded in a multi-coloured fireball and killed me.”

“Why are you _laughing_ at that?” 

“Because it’s funny- the absurd horror of trying to imagine someone stuffing a lightsaber full of crystals and expecting it to work, as well as the thought of being taken out by a rainbow explosion when I’ve had Sith and bounty hunters and the Emperor himself unable to do the job.”

He stared at her incredulously, turning the image over and over in his head; to his horror, he felt his mouth twitch with the beginnings of a smile. 

“I’m so glad you share my amusement,” Ona’la said, even though her eyes were still closed. 

“I don’t,” he said quickly, fighting back the laughter. 

“Oh, of course you don’t,” she said. “I _definitely_ believe you.” 

“Hurry up and pick a crystal, then,” he said, trying to change the subject. 

Her smile settled into something a little more dreamy, as she slipped back into the trance she’d been in when he’d approached. “I’m waiting to know which one is right for me,” she murmured.

He looked down at the assortment of crystals on the little wooden tray, all of them shaped by time and the elements, all of them flawed and imperfect in their own way. He recalled the crystal he’d put into his very first lightsaber, when he’d been a boy- smooth and flawless and singing softly with power, chosen for him ahead of time by his father’s servants. The selection on the tray was eclectic, unusual, and he could see faint hints of discolouration in some of the crystals, not a single one of them artificially carved for a more pleasing shape. 

It struck him that it was a terribly apt metaphor for both of their lives- the golden crystal he’d wielded in his lightsaber across the years had been chosen for him, without his input, and had been carefully sourced and carefully shaped and polished and imbued with power long before it had reached his ten-year-old hands. Ona’la, by comparison, assembled a motley collection of imperfect crystals, all of them extraordinarily powerful despite their flaws, and waited for the right one to speak to her. 

He envied her that freedom, in a childish sort of way. 

Her eyes were still closed, and her brow was furrowed as she concentrated, but there was something so overwhelmingly peaceful about her that he felt himself relaxing in kind. He could sense the deep feeling of calm as she drifted from thought to thought in her meditations, and it bled over in to him as he sat opposite her. Glancing between her face and the tray of crystals, he felt the immense restraint she showed with her powers, and the way the crystals all sang in harmony with her. 

It was, he realised, extraordinarily beautiful. The Force, for him, had always been a tool, something to use and manipulate and wield as a weapon and a shield when necessary; he had never been taught to see it as anything else. But for Ona’la, the Force was like a song, a dance, a vast and living, breathing piece of art in constant movement and flux. 

The resonance of the light within her was so brilliantly bright that it was almost jarring to experience- like trying to stare into the explosive core of a supernova. 

He took a shaky breath and glanced down at the crystals again. “That one,” he murmured, unsure of whether she’d even hear him in the depths of her concentration. 

It was mostly unsurprising when she cracked open one eye, the purple of her iris all but sparkling. “Mm?”

“That one,” he repeated, pointing to an almost cloudy blue-grey crystal two from the end. The edges of the crystal were smooth from being handled too frequently, and he’d wager that it had been used by someone as a lucky token in the past. He wondered if they’d even realised the crystal was attuned to the resonance of the Force. “That one fits you.” 

Her smile was somewhat dreamy, as if she was half asleep and lazily comfortable; it sent a shiver through him, something hot and fizzling that settled at the base of his spine. “I agree,” she said, and with a careful gesture of her hand, the crystal in question rose up from the tray, suspended in the air by the power of her thought alone. Her eyes closed again as she concentrated, a faint glow beginning to emanate from the shard- and, if he looked closely, from her as well. 

The various pieces and components of the unassembled lightsaber also rose into the air, hovering carefully between her outspread hands as they moved into position, spinning and rotating until they were all in perfect alignment, with the crystal hanging in the centre. He realised he was holding his breath, his skin prickling with the immense ebb and flow of the Force as she shaped the lightsaber to her will. 

Assembling his own lightsaber had been a far more mechanical procedure- it was a machine, a tool, and function was far more important than faith. But it had been a moment of joy and empowerment that he’d shared with Arcann, and watching Ona’la perform a task that until now he had only watched his brother do made a fierce ache settle in his stomach. 

He had no idea how long it took, as caught up in the moment as she was, watching in rapt fascination as the Force flowed through her and into the tool that was to be an extension of her will. It was peculiarly intimate, breathtakingly so, when the pieces of the lightsaber finally slotted together, locking into place as they twisted and tightened, and he slowly let out the breath he’d been holding. 

The glow around her began to subside, and she reached out with one hand to pluck the hilt from the air. It came to her gently, and even just from watching he could feel the _rightness_ of it in her grip, the way it was weighted so perfectly for her. Her eyes, when she opened them slowly, were sparkling and sated, as calm and confident as he had ever seen her. 

The buzzing crackle of the saber’s blade should have been jarring, a reminder of the violence such a weapon was used for, but everything still possessed such an odd dream-like quality that it didn’t bother him as it should have. The blade was a decent length, a shimmering blue-grey that seemed to bleed towards silver along the edges. 

The silence when she disabled it was shocking, however, finally jolting him from his inaction; he blinked, as if coming out of a daze, and then realised how very close he was sitting to a highly trained Jedi Master holding a lightsaber, while he was unarmed. 

He fell backwards, his hands going back at the last moment to catch him from falling flat onto his back like a fool, and then he awkwardly shuffled backwards, putting much needed distance between them; Ona’la, for her part, was still coming out of the euphoric daze she’d succumbed to, and was blinking in confusion, trying to work out what was going on.

“Thexan?”

He lurched to his feet, stumbling clumsily before finding his balance and righting himself. Stupid to have allowed himself to get so caught up in the moment; stupid to have allowed himself to engage in a moment of vulnerability with her, stupid stupid _stupid_ -

“Wait, Thexan. Please?” 

Something in her voice made him pause, and he glanced back over his shoulder to find her climbing to her feet with far more grace than he’d managed; she quickly crossed the room towards him, and came to a stop at his side. When she took his hand in hers, he almost jumped out of his skin at the contact- he hadn’t been expecting the touch, to be honest, and her fingers were gentle, soft, and the instinct to let her take his hand and thread their fingers together was-

She turned his hand over, his palm facing upwards, and placed _his_ lightsaber there; he let her close his fingers over the hilt, too stunned by the enormity of the gesture to consider objecting.

He hadn’t even seen her with it while she’d been working. 

“I can’t keep this in good faith,” she said softly, her eyes not quite meeting his as she stood there with his hand in both of hers. “It belongs to you, and I can’t withhold something so important from you.”

He felt absurdly light-headed, as if he couldn’t quite draw enough air in with each breath. “Why would you trust me with this?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

She _did_ look at him now, a quizzical look in her eyes. “Because I choose to trust you,” she said, as if it was the most simple and obvious answer in the universe.

“I could kill you-”

“I’ve had it for weeks now, and haven’t once used it on you- so why, suddenly, when the situation is reversed, should I be afraid?” 

“You say that like you assume I _wasn’t_ afraid.”

Her gaze softened, and her hands tightened around his; her thumb stroked back and forth over the back of his hand. “I never wanted you to be afraid of me, Thexan,” she said honestly. “I just want to help you.”

He believed her. 

He pulled his hand out of her grip, his gaze dropping instead to the lightsaber hilt he held; it felt good to have it back again, it felt familiar and solid and more than a little bit like home. 

But it also felt alien- this was a weapon of a man he wasn’t sure he knew anymore, a man he was worried he’d lost. 

“I believe you have a war waiting for you,” he said quietly, not looking up from the weapon in his hand. She was silent for so long that he began to believe she might not answer, and he finally glanced up to find her watching him almost sorrowfully. “You don’t appreciate the reminder?”

Ona’la’s smile was small, and it was sad, and it made something in him yearn with the need to take back his words. “The war will find me soon enough,” she said, just as quietly. “And a Jedi can succumb to death through spiritual exhaustion just as easily as they can to blood loss.”

“I... don’t understand.”

“Something my master once said to me a long time ago.” She shook her head. “Or... maybe he didn’t, sometimes it’s hard to tell.” She took a deep breath. “Regardless- the war will come here, and I will be ready.” 

For a very long moment, they held eye contact, the silence stretching out between them; it felt significant, in the same way that the moment they’d shared over the tray of crystals had, and Thexan opened his mouth to speak. 

Her comms unit buzzed in her pocket, startling her, and she laughed nervously, fishing it out. “If you’ll excuse me,” she murmured, heading back into the other room without a backwards glance. 

Thexan stared after her, and then down at the lightsaber in his hand.

He was beginning to suspect he had even less control over this situation than he’d originally feared.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for violence consistent with BH storyline, depression, intrusive thoughts and suicidal ideation

Two figures stood atop an apartment complex in one of the more exclusive sectors of Coruscant, the endless glow of the city-planet reflecting against their expensively customized armour, despite the shadows they lingered in. They weren’t making a huge effort to hide, their silhouettes clearly visible if you knew what to look for; if anything, they looked just as casual and relaxed as if they were waiting outside a bar in the lower sector, their body language that of two people looking to waste time before moving on to something more important.

Their choice of location was a bit odd for such loitering, but Coruscant was nothing if not brimming with the odd and the unexpected.

One of the figures was at least a good foot taller than the other, pacing along the immense drop at the edge of the building without any obvious concern or fear; their armour was blood red and black, polished to a fierce shine that reflected back the neon lights of the city, their helmet bearing strangely curved strips of metal that tapered down to fine, dauntingly sharp points. The design of it kept their mouth and chin uncovered, and their lips were painted with a strikingly dark red so deep that it bordered on black.

They turned to the far shorter figure, who was lounging against the wall with their arms crossed and one foot propped up against the duracrete at their back. “I still don’t know about this colour,” Ysaine said, gesturing to her mouth. “Feels a bit vampish for my age.”

Torian, in his white and grey armour, his face covered by a more traditional Mandalorian helm, cocked his head to the side, as if considering. “I think it looks nice on you.”

Ysaine made an amused snort. “You think _everything_ looks nice on me,” she said pointedly, resuming her pacing.

“That’s not true- sometimes I think nothing looks best on you.”

She could practically feel the smugness rolling off of him, and she cast a withering look in his direction. “You spend the last few days working on that one?” she asked. “You were awful quiet on the flight over.”

“Can’t a man just sit and enjoy the quiet company of his wife without needing a motive now?”

“You’re lucky you’re so cute, Cadera.”

This was a soft crackle of static in their helmets, and then Mako’s amused voice came through their comms. “If you two are quite done flirting,” she said archly, “I’ve got us a window. The mark is now in transit.”

“Copy that,” Ysaine said, coming to a stop by the very edge of the drop; pushing off from the wall, Torian sauntered over to join her, securing his fighting pole to his back as he did so. The city spread out below them, vanishing towards the horizon and into the depths at their feet, a buzzing, brilliant glow of activity.

“Always did wanna see Coruscant,” Torian mused beside her.

She chuckled. “Not much different from Nar Shaddaa, ‘cept they like to think their shit don’t stink here. Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

Ysaine checked the fuel levels on her helmet’s internal display, even knowing she’d checked everything a dozen times before the drop. “Alrighty then- three windows down. Let’s go.”

She stepped off the edge, her rocket boots firing instantly, and she dropped rapidly towards the window in question; behind her, she heard Torian jump as well, the roar of his boots sounding close to her head. Her stomach lurched for that first brief moment of weightlessness, and then the boots countered the effects of gravity and let her descend at a more controlled rate. When she reached the window she needed, she pulled up hard on the controls on the interior screen of her helmet, the flame burning fiercer as it kept her aloft and in place; Torian likewise came to a full halt beside her, already pressing two suction cups with handles against the glass in front of them.

“Careful,” she said, activating her wrist laser and adjusting the intensity of the beam, “that’s actual glass, not transparisteel. Last thing we want is it to shatter and rain down on the pavement and alert folk to our dastardly misdeeds.”

Torian made a scoffing noise. “Please, riduur, I think you’ll find I’ve broken into fancy apartments before just fine.”

Holding tight to the handles he’d suctioned to the glass, Torian ducked out of her way as she ran the laser around the inside of the frame. “Give me an update on security, Mako,” she said, “we’re nearly through.”

“Standard security systems in these sorts of apartments tend to have a motion activated grid of lasers just inside the frame, so don’t drop the glass on the floor or you’ll have half of the cops in the sector breathing down your neck.”

Beside her, Torian grunted. “Easy enough for you to say,” he said, his voice strained. “You try keeping a forty kilo pane of glass five hundred feet off the ground.”

“I’m sure you look very impressively muscular and manly, Torian,” Mako said with false sympathy. “Just give me a few more seconds to tap into the sector’s power grid-”

“You never do anything by halves, do you Mako?”

“And lose the chance to show off my skills? Please.” Even as she spoke, there was a very noticeable flicker in the lights around them, a stuttering flash on and off as if the power was being siphoned away. “Alright, almost there- have you finished up with the entry point?”

The laser cut through the last inch of glass, and with a grunt of effort, Torian hefted it away from the side of the building, his boots flaring brightly to compensate for the extra weight. “We’re done,” Ysaine said. “Get those lasers down, now!”

“Two more seconds,” Mako said, sounding strained. In front of them, the apartment in question was dark, with the telltale shimmer of red lines running just inside the window frame. Any would-be thief or assassin thinking to avoid detection by bypassing the doors would’ve been in for a nasty surprise if they’d surged in unthinking. “There!”

The power in the area around them flickered again, and the lasers barring them entry vanished. Ysaine shot in first, killing the jets in her boots and turning to help Torian with the unwieldy piece of glass.

“Five seconds,” Mako warned.

“Osik, Mako, talk about cutting it fine!”

“I can’t disrupt the power grid any longer than that or they’ll know it’s sabotage rather than a natural surge or fluctuation!”

Ysaine grabbed the edge of the pane- thankful beyond belief that her gloves were heavy duty enough to deal with fresh cut glass without her fingers getting all cut up- and heaved it into the apartment, Torian flying in with it. He lost his grip at the last moment and went hurtling over her shoulder, tumbling head over heels on the polished wooden floors and skidding halfway down the hallway; Ysaine, suddenly burdened with the full weight of the glass, grunted in annoyance and tugged it out of the gaping hole in the wall-

-just as the lasers flickered back to life.

She held her breath for a moment, frozen with the glass propped up against her leg.

“Aaaand...” Mako’s voice sounded ominously loud in the silence of the apartment. “... we’re in! No alarms triggered on any system, all monitors reading as per normal. Congratulations.”

From down the hallway, where he was lying on the floor, Torian let out a half-hearted cheer. Ysaine let out the breath she’d been holding, easing the glass pane down until it lay flat on the floor. “How long until the mark arrives?”

“Hmm.” She could hear the beep of Mako’s extensive computer array in the background over the comms. “Gault has lost visual, but the tracking device says five minutes, tops.”

“Good,” she said, hands on her hips as she surveyed the dark apartment. “Let Gault know he’s useless and if he got distracted by a woman again, I’m gonna stake his predictable ass.”

“Is that a promise, boss?” Gault drawled over the comms.

“Fuck off it is, Rennow,” Torian said, as he heaved himself to his feet.

“You trust your lady in the bed of a Mandalorian warchief, but not with a true and trusted friend and companion? For shame, Cadera, where’s the love?”

“Wherever it is, there ain’t none of it left for you, Rennow,” Ysaine said, her lips quirking in amusement. “Get back to work.”

“You break my heart, captain, you break my heart.”

“ _Four_ minutes,” Mako said pointedly, “as much as I hate to interrupt this lovefest.”

In the dark of the apartment, Ysaine sketched a rough salute that Mako would never see. “Yes ma’am, back to the grindstone.”

Torian had climbed to his feet and was stretching, his arms reaching high above him as he rolled his head from side to side. “Any other internal security systems?” he asked, spinning slowly in place; his armour sat so snugly over his thighs, and the high-weave mesh of the under-armour hugged his ass so lovingly that for a moment Ysaine was distracted.

She shook herself. “Nah, most of the security is down in the lobby. They figure anyone getting in is gonna be stupid enough to try the front doors.”

“Fancy digs for a retiree,” Torian said, picking up a vase from a side table and turning it over in his hands. “This shit looks expensive.”

“Yeah, well, we wouldn’t be here if he was actually retired like he said he was,” Ysaine said, ambling further into the apartment. “Ooh, I’m guessing that’s top shelf whiskey.”

“How nice that he’s buying.”

“Shouldn’t drink on the job,” Ysaine said, nonetheless pouring herself a generous mouthful into the equally fancy crystal tumbler. “But this is a social call, so it’s different.”

Mako’s voice came through the comms at a hushed volume. “Mark has hit the lobby and is moving into the turbolift, so expect contact in less than a minute.”

“Copy that,” Ysaine said, throwing back the entire finger of whiskey in one swallow. The lipstick left a dark smear against the rim of the glass, and she grimaced at it. “Torian?”

“Got it, riduur.”

She could hear him moving into position further into the apartment, closer to the front door, and glancing around for an ideal set-up of her own, she spotted a very plush looking lounge set in the next room over, complete with a quaint little glass-top table.

Perfect.

She vaulted over the couch, making sure to step on the cushions with her giant boots a few times, just to make sure there were grease stains, and then flopped down heavily, kicking her legs out and propping them up on the table. The glass squeaked in protest, and she smiled.

“I’ve got visuals of the building security feed,” Mako said quietly. “Mark is exiting the turbolift.”

“This is nice,” Ysaine said, “doing family stuff. It’s been boring since Zakuul fucked off and took their robot toys home.”

“Could you focus for thirty seconds? Please?”

There was an electronic beep from the front of the apartment- the door lock disengaging, and Ysaine stilled immediately. She could hear footsteps, and a weary sigh, and then-

She almost laughed, feeling the exact moment the tension changed in the apartment and the owner realised they were no longer alone. A smart man would’ve taken the risk of lunging back out into the hallway, figuring their best bet to be in a more public area; but, then again, Dorian Janarus hadn’t particularly struck her as being the most intelligent man in the Republic.

A decent sort when he wanted to be, but not smart.

The apartment door closed again, probably his doing rather than Mako’s, but the lights did not come on. That _was_ her handiwork, and Ysaine was pleased as hell for it.

“Hello?”

She had to give it to the old man, his voice was stronger than she’d expected- she would’ve thought he’d scream out for help, or at least throw a tantrum about having his home invaded. Then again, he’d been fairly level-headed when she’d stormed the _Founder_ ready to kill him for the part he’d played in turning her into a cornered dog.

There was movement opposite her, and a figure came to a stop in the doorway; the same haggard features as before, the same snowy white beard, the same regal blue tunic embroidered with fancy gold detailing.

It was as if the past few years hadn’t happened at all.

“Janarus!” Ysaine said loudly, throwing her arms widely as if greeting a friend. “So good to see you! Have a seat, let’s catch up, yeah?”

The former Supreme Chancellor of the Galactic Republic stood warily in the doorway, frozen as his eyes flickered across the room, taking in the scene. He hesitated for a moment over her boots on the caf table, as if he wanted to object to her having her feet up on the furniture, but then wisely thought better of it.

“Hunter,” he said simply, as if he hadn’t just come home to find the most notorious bounty hunter in the galaxy sitting in his lounge room and helping herself to his whiskey. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Now, now, Janarus, where’s the love? We’re old friends, aren’t we? After all, I did very magnanimously save your life after you went to great lengths to destroy mine.”

Janarus stiffened suddenly, glancing slightly to the side; out of the shadows of the hallway, the shape of Torian’s grey helmet resolved like a ghost. From Janarus’ abrupt tension, she knew Torian had pressed a blaster into his back. “Why don’t you take a seat with the lady, be a gentleman?” Torian said, his accent coming out in a full drawl. Stars help her, she fucking loved it when he talked like that.

It was almost as bad as when Shae talked like that.

It wasn’t like he had room to dispute the request, so Janarus carefully crossed the room and sat on the couch opposite Ysaine, his hands folded politely in his lap; Torian made a point of standing behind the couch, looming over him.

Ysaine beamed at the two of them. “This is nice,” she said, gesturing between them. “Nice little get-together. We should do this more often.”

“What have I done to warrant the- _delights_ , of your attention, my dear?”

“See, I knew you could be a gentleman if you set your mind to it,” she said, leaning back against the couch and stretching her arms out along the length of the cushions. “I’m interested in acquiring some information, and it occurs to me that you just might be able to help narrow my search down significantly.”

Janarus nodded, as if this were a perfectly natural thing for her to have broken into his apartment in aid of. “You realise, of course, that since our previous... encounter, shall we say, that I have been much removed from the political landscape.”

She cackled, startling him. “Stars, that’s a good one,” she said, sitting up with a groan and dragging her feet noisily off the table; Janarus winced, his gaze lingering on the black streaks her boots had left on the glass. “Much removed from the political landscape- it’s so polite! And such a lie!”

“I can assure you, I have none of the resources you suspect me of having.”

“You don’t need to lie in here, Janarus,” she said. “Ain’t nobody here but us, and I’m not in the blackmail business, so I’m not gonna carry anything you say out of here to hold over your head at a later date. I need information, and you’re gonna give it to me.”

Janarus was silent for several long moments, as if considering his options. Finally he sighed. “I can make no guarantees,” he said quietly. “Tell me what it is you need.”

Ysaine grinned, all teeth and no kindness. “The Jedi Battlemaster came back from the dead a few months back, it seems,” she began, and Janarus immediately straightened in his chair, leaning forward despite the warning poke of Torian’s blaster.

“That Battlemaster has no quarrel with you,” he said firmly, his eyes hard. “You settled your debt with Jun Seros, now leave it be. I’ll not have any part of some Mandalorian feud with the Order, not again.”

“Cool your jets, Janarus,” Torian said, his gloved hand thumping heavily on his shoulder and pulling him back into the seat. “Don’t interrupt the lady.”

Waiting until he’d settled again, Ysaine clucked her tongue in disappointment. “See, I don’t go in for mindless vengeance like your Jedi Battlemaster friend did. I’ve got no problem with her as long as she don’t make trouble for me- I’m more interested in the friend she bought back with her.”

At this, Janarus paused, and a calculating expression fell over his face. “The Prince of Zakuul,” he said.

“Stating the obvious, but yeah.” Ysaine settled back against the couch. “Lots of folk want him dead, no big surprise there- but someone wanted it to be big, and messy, and political. I want to know who.”

“It’s as you say, Hunter,” Janarus said carefully, “there are ‘ _lots of folk_ ’ who would have been happy to see the Prince removed.”

She tapped her fingers irritably against the back of the cushions. “See, you go being all sly like that, I know you’ve got something,” she said, hefting one heavy boot back up onto the table. He winced quite noticeably. “There is _nothing_ on the streets about who ordered the hit- literally nothing. Do you know how unheard of that is? Even when someone tries to tidy up loose ends, they never catch all the threads- there’s always one or two whispers that get out, and then the whole damn thing comes unraveled. But right now? Nothing.”

“How peculiar.”

“Don’t give me that cryptic bullshit, Janarus- just because you ain’t a Senator anymore doesn’t mean you aren’t doing private consultancy shit, or serving on private committees. And your friendships and contacts don’t just dry up overnight.” She stabbed a finger in his direction. “You know something, and I need to know it too.”

“Whyever for, Hunter? Surely such a death would be inconsequential to you, in the grand scheme of things- unless you feel outmatched, perhaps? A need to prove your superiority?”

“It’s of interest to my _client_ ,” she said, overenunciating the words as she leaned forward, dropping her foot back onto the floor and resting her arms on her knees. “So that makes it of interest to _me_.”

“You’re upsetting the lady, old man,” Torian said ominously.

“My apologies,” Janarus said airily. He stared at her for several long moments again, as if weighing up his chances of successfully lying to her, before he cleared his throat. “Very well. The assassin was a member of the Imperial Guard.”

There were two beats of silence, and then- “You mean like, Zakuul’s Imperial Guard, right?”

“Not at all,” he said. “The assassin took his own life before he could be taken in for questioning, but there is no doubt about his allegiance- he wore the red of the Guard, and he had a highly modified DS-10 Starforged sniper rifle, a model preferred by the marksmen in their ranks.”

Ysaine chewed on her lip thoughtfully. “Assassination like that, public and detached, it was supposed to send a message. The messenger wasn’t a part of the deal- it was supposed to be clean and cold and violent. Why dress up like a fuckin’ leather fetishist if you’re not expecting to get caught?”

“If you are suggesting it was a set-up designed to incriminate the Imperial Guard, I’d gently advise you to rethink the evidence,” Janarus said. “The Imperial Guard have no reason to mask their actions, especially not now.”

“Yeah, but they were decimated on Yavin 4, so the chances of-”

“So the chances of them still looking to follow their Master’s edicts are negligible?”

“So the chances of their _tech_ winding up as easy pickings on the black market are pretty good odds,” she said pointedly. “Good enough to bet that someone wanting to cover their tracks when they off the Prince of Zakuul would shell out the asking price for them.”

“Anyone interested in killing Prince Thexan while he is under Republic jurisdiction has a very specific agenda, Hunter, and placing the blame at the feet of an almost defunct organization with nothing to gain from such an event does not line up with that.”

She threw her hands up, somewhat frustrated. “As much as I enjoy letting you play at being a smug old bastard, just explain it to me simple, okay? I don’t enjoy talking in circles, Janarus.”

“Perhaps your employer should keep you to hunting men, rather than information, since you seem to struggle with the latter.”

In the blink of an eye, Torian had a hand fisted in Janarus’ hair from behind and a knife pressed up against his ear, the blade pressed in hard enough to draw blood; Janarus, for his part, had the good sense to freeze, not trying to fight the grip of a man forty years his junior and far more comfortable with blood and the threat of death than he was. “I don’t like it when people disrespect the lady,” Torian said, his voice deathly quiet. “I’d appreciate it if you could apologise to her.”

“Isn’t he such a gentleman?” Ysaine asked, beaming at Torian. She couldn’t tell if he returned the smile or not, given that the helmet covered his face, but she liked to think he did.

“He is,” Janarus said, his voice utterly flat. “You have my most sincere apologies, Hunter.”

“We’re friends, aren’t we? Call me Ysaine.”

His gaze was just as flat as his voice. “Ysaine, then. I sincerely apologise for any offense I may have caused, my words were poorly thought.” He glanced upwards, in the vague direction of where Torian loomed over him. “May I keep my ear?”

Torian’s helmet moved to indicate he was looking in her direction for her preference; she shook her head slightly, gesturing with her hand for him to put the knife away. He nodded sharply, pulling the knife away and letting go of his hair in one gesture, shoving him forward. Janarus dabbed a finger gently at the wound, his nose crinkling in distaste when Torian wiped the blade clean on the cushion beside his head.

“Much obliged,” he said, tugging a delicate looking handkerchief from his sleeve and pressing it to his ear. “I will be blunt, then- the assassin wore the armoured robes of the Imperial Guard, and his weapon of choice matched theirs. Given that he was dead upon capture, it is impossible to say for sure whether he was in the thrall of the Emperor’s spirit, but he did bear subtle cybernetic enhancement consistent with that of the Guard. Additionally, there was a short burst of indecipherable static that was traced on frequency forty-seven point two, which is known to be the frequency maintained by the Guard in Imperial space.”

Ysaine waved a hand dismissively. “The Imperial Guard have literally nothing to gain from killing the kid,” she said, but Janarus just shook his head.

“I beg to differ, their master clearly has an investment in the whereabouts and circumstances of his own children.”

Ysaine opened her mouth to argue, and then hesitated; she turned the words over in her head carefully, and then shook her head. “You’ve lost me, you mean the Zakuul Imperial Guard again, right? Their master would’ve been that Valkorion dude, the Zakuul Emperor? You mean him, don’t you?”

“Indeed, but not in the manner in which you presume.” Janarus sat forward slowly, shaking off Torian’s hand when he tried to pull him back against the couch cushions. “Did your _employer_ not explain to you the nature of Zakuul’s relationship to the Sith Emperor?”

She could tell when she was being mocked, and she didn’t appreciate it at all- even less so knowing that this could’ve been avoided had Gabriel given her the whole truth when he’d hired her on behalf of the Wrath. “I’m beginning to feel less than amiable towards you, Janarus, so how ‘bout we wrap this up before I lose my patience,” she said coldly. “What’s Zakuul’s relationship to the Sith Emperor?”

“Why, it would seem that the Emperor of Zakuul was in fact the Sith Emperor, under a different alias.” He seemed ruthlessly pleased to have embarrassed her, but he kept his tone pleasant. “I don’t pretend to understand the particulars, all this sorcery and Force nonsense, so I do not know how exactly it worked, but Emperor Valkorion was in fact Emperor Vitiate.”

Silence, thick and ugly and uncomfortable, settled over the room; not a one of them moved, swallowed up by the shadows and only interrupted by the faint sounds of the city trickling in from the breached window.

Ysaine grunted in frustration. “So what you’re saying,” she said, somewhat irritably, “is that Valky and Vitiate were the same tyrannical old despot, but that Valky had a couple of biological kids, one of whom is now running around in the Republic under the protection of the Jedi Battlemaster.”

“That is indeed what I’m saying.”

“Okay, but- seriously, the same person? And why the hell would he- or it, I don’t know- want his little techno-cult to assassinate his own son?”

“And ain’t he dead again?” Torian said, pitching in to the conversation proper for the first time and sounding just as confused as she felt. “How’d he get his minions to organise a hit when word is that Darth Nox killed him weeks back?”

“One would assume that a man as calculating as the Sith Emperor would have contingency plans in place that reach far beyond his death,” Janarus said. “And beyond that, well... it’s not exactly the first time he’s been killed in the last few years, is it?”

“I miss the good old days,” Ysaine grumbled, “when a man had the decency to stay dead when you killed him.”

“Don’t we all, Hunter.”

She rubbed at her chin, frustrated at this turn of events; she hadn’t expected to stagger into something this big when she’d taken the job from Gabe. “Okay, so... Vitiate and this Valkorion asshole are the same person, and they’ve both been killed, but it’s possible that they both just laughed it off and are still kicking around somewhere. Valky had some actual kids- pity that poor woman, fuck, I hope the sex was worth it-, and one of them was declared dead by Zakuul, then turned up in Coruscant, at which point Vitiate’s old gang promptly tried to correct that embarrassment. That sound about right?”

Janarus huffed out a sound of amusement. “That does indeed sound about right. Or as close as we can guess without further information.”

Ysaine slumped backwards onto the couch. “Fucking Force users, man,” she griped. “The fuck is wrong with them?”

“One can only begin to imagine, my dear.” Janarus shifted, fidgeting slightly. “If that will be all? I believe I’ve answered your questions to the best of my abilities.”

Torian grunted in frustration. “That doesn’t tell us _why_ the Imperial Guard tried to off the prince-”

“That was not the question presented to me, nor is it something I am in a position to answer,” Janarus snapped, his patience clearly running thin. “If you require further information, one would assume that the best person to speak to would be another member of the Imperial Guard, because the only one in our custody right now is dead.”

She chewed on her lip, mulling over the bombardment of new information and trying to work out what to make of it all. “I think we’re done here,” she said, climbing very abruptly to her feet. At six foot four, she loomed rather impressively over Janarus, even more so given the few extra inches the boots and the helmet gave her. “As always, Janarus, it was an absolute pleasure.”

“Undoubtedly,” he said flatly, eyeing her cautiously. He tried to withhold his flinch when Torian vaulted over the couch at his shoulder, clambering pointedly over the cushions as he made his way to Ysaine’s side. “Am I fortunate enough to hope that this will be our last encounter?”

Ysaine made a rude sound. “ _Dorian_ ,” she said, drawling out his name with false affection, “look at you, making these hurtful jokes about not wanting to see your old friend again. I’ll let you off the hook this time, but we’ll catch up again soon, alright? We’ll have dinner, you can introduce me to your family-”

“That will _never_ happen, Hunter.”

She made finger-gun gestures at him, grinning widely. “Good to see you, Janarus,” she said, turning her back on him and heading towards the breached window. “You should get those couches to the dry-cleaners or something, I dunno. Grease stains like that are hard to get out of that sort of fabric.”

She walked straight up to the window, heedless of the laser alarm grid, and stepped straight through- dropping down into the waiting speeder hovering a few feet below the floor. Gault was lounging in the driver’s seat, casual as always, but he winced pointedly when her weight made the speeder rock from side to side, casting her a withering look when the alarm system began to blare warningly above them.

“Have fun, did we?” he asked, closing his eyes in another wince when Torian dropped into the backseat and set the speeder lurching again. “I’m not gonna get a holo from Dorian’s mommy telling me you two didn’t play nice, now, am I?”

“Just shut up and drive, Rennow,” Torian said, nudging the seat with his boot.

Gault peeled away from the building as the alarm wailed behind them, ducking and weaving seamlessly through the busy Coruscant traffic until the sound faded in the distance, and they were indistinguishable from the tens of thousands of other speeders in the sector.

“So,” Gault said conversationally, “how’d it go?”

Ysaine settled into the front passenger seat, her feet propped up on the dashboard. “I have a pressing need to beat the living shit out of an Imperial Guard,” she said.

“You really want to see the job through to the end that bad?”

“This ain’t fucking employee loyalty, Rennow,” she said. “I just fucking well hate mysteries.”

* * *

Ona’la was ignoring him, and so Thexan was bored.

Well, that wasn’t precisely accurate- she wasn’t ignoring him out of any pettiness on her part, not that he was even sure whether she was capable of pettiness in the first place, given how unrelentingly kind she was, and-

And now he’d lost his train of thought again, obsessing over her in silence while she took holo after holo and made notes on various unfamiliar star charts and replied to numerous messages that he couldn’t hope to read without looming over her shoulder with the obvious intent to poke his nose into her affairs. There was a war brewing, he knew that, and he realised that given that said war was being instigated by _his_ people and more specifically _his_ brother, that she wouldn’t be inclined to share any news with him or discuss any particularly vexing matters, but _stars above_ he was so _bored_.

He wasn’t in immediate danger of losing his life, so the tension that had been keeping him focussed these past few weeks had bled away, leaving him just... empty. He felt like a husk, directionless and aimless and unnecessary; it wasn’t like Ona’la needed him, and Zakuul seemed to be going to great lengths to keep him at an arm’s length as well, so for possibly the first time in his life he had nothing. No goals, no driving motivation, no tendril of fear inspiring him and steering him in order to keep him out of his father’s crosshairs.

He had his lightsaber back, so there was nothing to stop him from storming out onto the speeder pad and staging his own escape- Ona’la was busy, so surely she wouldn’t notice him leaving if he was careful about it.

Instead he was sprawled across one of the fancy couches in the grand hall that had no soul, listening to the faint sounds of her conversation with yet another ally- he could never quite hear who it was she was talking to, only that it was always someone she felt comfortable offering her laughter to, something she rarely did with him- and wondering why he felt so hollow and listless and wondering why he felt so exhausted.

 _Run away_ , whispered a quiet voice in his head, to which he groaned in frustration and rolled over onto his side, staring at the back of the couch in the hope that ignoring it would make it stop. Running away was something that an eight year old dreamed of wistfully, not a grown man trapped in some kind of nightmarish limbo, with no one to turn to and no safe haven to retreat to.

 _Kill the Battlemaster_ , it tried instead, and he gritted his teeth and pulled one of the plush cushions over his head, as if that would block it out. _Kill yourself, so that they cannot use and humiliate you any longer._

He just wanted quiet again. There was too much noise, in his head and in his surroundings, and he wanted the silence back again.

It occurred to him, as he lay there resenting Ona’la for not prioritising him with her attention, that he wasn’t really sure how to be alone- he’d always had Arcann, even when they’d been physically separated by their father’s whims in an attempt to cow them and break them, he’d had Arcann there like a second heartbeat echoing in his ribcage. When it wasn’t possible to have Arcann physically beside him, there’d been Vaylin. The various servants and the Knights and Scions.

Father, for whatever he counted.

He’d had a place and a sense of surety and a home, no matter what else it might have been. What did he have now? Rejection and mockery and hatred no matter which way he turned, unwelcome in the Republic and the Sith Empire for his crimes against them both and apparently unwelcome at home as well; for all his bold claims to Ona’la earlier, Arcann’s words had shaken him to the core. If he didn’t have Arcann, then what was he?

What was he supposed to do when confronted with the hollow space within him and wonder whether there was supposed to be an actual person in there, and not the fractured remains of... something else. His father was gone, and he had only ever been an extension of his will, a weapon for him to wield against his enemies; Arcann had denounced him, and he had given every moment of his existence to loving him and keeping him alive.

He didn’t have a home, he didn’t have a family- he couldn’t even say he knew who he was right now.

And the maelstrom in his head wouldn’t leave him _alone_.

He may have slept once or twice- he wasn’t sure, to be completely honest, because the afternoon just seemed to blur away in a haze of frustration and self-loathing. The light was golden as it slated through the windows when he finally rolled over and climbed sluggishly to his feet, wobbling slightly as he tried to find his balance; he had a headache, and his mouth was dry from dehydration. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a drink- maybe earlier that morning, when he’d stopped to bathe?

This was all so _surreal_. He, an Imperial prince, the son of a man who had dethroned a god to elevate Zakuul to glorious heights, staggering around in a stranger’s empty ballroom tens of thousands of light years from home, with his sense of self identity seeping away all the faster the more he tried to grasp at it.

He needed something, _anything_ , to centre him again. To give him direction and purpose and a feeling of belonging again...

His eyes fell on his lightsaber- _his lightsaber_ \- where he’d placed it on the small caf table beside the couch when he’d lain down hours earlier. His weapon, the extension of his will and his strength, a symbol of who he was and what he was and a reminder of the battles he’d fought at Arcann’s side and the pain they had endured together.

The weeks he’d spent unconscious and the injury he’d sustained had weakened him, but he was not defeated. Not yet.

It felt so _good_ to have his lightsaber back in his hand, so right and so freeing, to feel it weighted so perfectly for his grip, to hear the hum of the blade as it responded to his touch and sparked to life. He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed it, the simple comfort of his own weapon- his last link to home.

He swung it experimentally, the blade hissing as it seared through the air, and from there it was easy to just let that one move flow on into another, and then another, his body falling into the pattern of a lifetime of training. It was a good thing that the hall was designed for large gatherings and therefore sparsely furnished, because once the rhythm and the repetition took hold of him, he would not have stopped for something so meagre as furniture.

The blade sang in his hand, sweeping and slicing as he danced out of reach of imaginary opponents, keeping a count in his head of each step despite it being as intuitive to him as breathing. He lunged, he ducked and weaved, his boots squeaking on the polished marble tiles as he lost himself in the violent exertion of movements he’d had memorised since his childhood.

It felt good, it felt _so_ good, and when it grew a little harder to breathe he ignored it, because he felt too good to stop now; when his scar began to burn, his stomach ablaze from the twists and the turns he pushed himself through, he ignored it. That was what had been expected of him by his teachers, after all, and by his father- ignore the pain, fight onwards at all costs- and there was an exhilarating edge to the pain that made his head light, because it meant he was alive and it meant he was fighting and it meant he had a purpose and a place and-

“ _Stop._ ”

He spun around in a lurching circle, his breath coming ragged in his lungs. Ona’la was standing far too close behind him for his tastes, a small frown on her brow as she watched him, her lips pursed ever so slightly as if she was about to speak again. He snarled wordlessly at her, a hint of his power imbued in the sound; it was enough to make the furniture closest to him rattle ever so slightly.

Ona’la, however, did not even flinch. “Stop this, Thexan,” she said calmly, her tone stern. “You’re hurting yourself.”

His chest was heaving as he tried to draw enough breath to make his head stop spinning, but it wasn’t quite enough. “What does it _matter_ to _you_ what I do to myself?” he growled, even as the pain in his torso made black spots dance in front of his eyes. The pain wasn’t good now, he didn’t like it- it was no longer a part of the dance, no longer just another facet of the violent energy he wielded. Now he felt weak, and frightened.

“It matters a great deal,” she said, rather bluntly too. “I am responsible for far more than just your safety, and if you will not prioritise your own health, then it falls to me instead.”

He bared his teeth at her in some pretence at a smile. “So you care more for your own reputation,” he said, panting heavily as the exhaustion began to come crashing down on top of him, “worried that word will get out that you can’t control that wretched, wayward prince?”

“ _Thexan_.” She stepped right into his space, well within range of his lightsaber’s reach. “Disengage your weapon, and set it down.”

“Why don’t you make me?”

“I’m not going to resort to violence, Thexan,” she said, taking another step; if he’d wanted to, he could have reached out and touched her cheek. He could have brought the lightsaber down against her neck. “I gave you back your lightsaber in good faith, that you would not use it for wrongdoing- and that includes wrongdoing against _yourself_. I am not going to take it from you by force.”

“How unfortunate,” he said hoarsely, feeling himself shiver now that the adrenalin was bleeding out of him, leaving him with only the sharp edge of the pain for company. “I have no intention of surrendering it.”

“I’m not asking you to surrender it, Thexan.” Closer again, and when she put her hand on his wrist, he couldn’t help the awkward, pathetic noise he made. “Please, I can feel your pain- I just want to help you. Please put the lightsaber down, you don’t have to let go of it, but please just turn it off.”

He was exhausted, shaking; his torso was _burning_ , like it hadn’t since the first day he’d awoken from unconsciousness. “Why do you want me to be weak?” he rasped.

The look in her eyes was solemn, but not pitying. “I want you to be _safe_ , Thexan,” she said. “And right now, what you’re doing, is only serving to weaken yourself further. If you are concerned about being weak in my company, you’re only going to make things worse if you keep this up.”

“I am not weak.”

“I know you aren’t,” she agreed, her hand still carefully resting over his wrist, not trying to disarm him or incapacitate him, simply resting against his skin. “What you’ve done, what you’ve survived- it takes remarkable strength and remarkable courage to do what you have done.”

He was shivering from the pain. “I know what you’re trying to do,” he said. “You can’t use mind tricks on me.”

“Force users are not susceptible to mind tricks, generally.”

“Not- not like that.” He swallowed. “You’re trying to manipulate me.”

“I’m trying to _help_ you, Thexan- there’s a difference. I don’t want you to do my bidding for my sake, I want you to listen to me so that you stop hurting.”

He looked at her- really, honestly looked at her, and something about the earnest sincerity in her eyes made something deep within him fracture, ever so slightly. “There are wounds you cannot heal, Ona’la,” he said hoarsely. “Please, just- don’t.”

“Some wounds don’t heal properly, Thexan,” she said, just as softly. “All we can do is learn to deal with our new limitations, and find ways to accommodate it. Please, turn off your lightsaber.”

For a long moment, they were frozen together like that, the buzz of the lightsaber and his unsteady, rasping breathing the only sound in the room. She didn’t push him, or try to wrestle the weapon from him, or try to coax him further into surrender; she just waited, her eyes solemn as she watched him.

She was so determined to treat him like an equal and not like a thing- not a weapon or a political pawn or a resource, but a person.

_“I’d like us to be friends.”_

He took a shuddering breath, and turned off the lightsaber.


	21. Chapter 21

“Love?”

Asmi felt the gentle brush of fingers against her cheek, trailing over to rub comfortingly at her lekku. She mumbled wordlessly, sleep dragging at her heels as she tried to blink herself awake; a very large part of her thought that was a rather terrible idea, judging by the utterly wrenching exhaustion that was still nipping at her heels as she stirred properly and managed to open her eyes. 

Felix was seated on the edge of the couch, smiling at her. “Hey, sleepyhead,” he said gently. “You’re gonna sleep the morning away if you’re not careful.” 

She returned the smile, her eyes fluttering closed again as she stretched lethargically. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep again,” she murmured, her voice a little scratchy; Felix already had a glass of water in hand when she opened her eyes again, preempting the question before she’d asked it. “Thank you.” 

“Your tea went cold a couple of hours ago,” Felix said, gesturing to the tea set on the small table beside the couch. It was sitting almost untouched, beside her research. “Do you want me to make you a new brew?”

Asmi grimaced, a hand going up to her forehead. “How long...?”

“Just a couple hours,” he said, leaning forward and resting his hand on her brow to feel for a fever. “It’s not midday yet.”

She waved his hand away ineffectively. “Not sick,” she said weakly, her eyes drooping shut again as she rested back against the cushions. “Just tired.”

“Headache?”

“Mmhmm.”

“I’ll get you something, then,” he said, kissing her gently on the cheek before he rose from the couch, collecting the tray with her neglected tea set on it as he went. After a moment, she could hear him poking around in the kitchen from where she lay. “Do you want me to comm Attros again? He or Pharen could make a house call.”

There wasn’t a single part of her that didn’t feel actually physically drained of strength, like her body was a hollow, brittle shell only held together by the very weakest of odds. “I’m fine,” she called, the tremor in her voice betraying her. 

She heard Felix chuckle from the next room. “Mm, cause I’ve never heard that one before, sweetheart.” There was the faint scent of pepper tea, the smell sharp and growing stronger as it steeped, and a richer scent that she recognised after a moment as some kind of meaty broth. “It’s not like you used that in our very first meeting or anything, nope.”

Asmi smiled faintly. “If I’d known you’d spend the next few years being so persistent, I might have tried to be more convincing in the lie.”

“Aw, damn it, what I wouldn’t give to have gotten that on holo,” Felix said. “Confession like that’d come in handy.”

“So you can guiltlessly say ‘ _I told you so_ ’?”

There was a rattle of cutlery and she opened her eyes again to see him carrying the tray back towards her. “Love, I would _never_ stoop so low as to say ‘ _I told you so_ ’ to the formidable Barsen’thor of the Jedi Order,” he said with false gravitas, easing the tray onto the small table as he settled back on to the edge of the couch again. There was another pot of tea, the acrid tang of the pepper leaves almost strong enough to make her eyes water, and a small bowl of broth with steam wafting from the surface and-

She crinkled her nose at the sprinkling of green leaves floating on the top of the broth; Felix saw it and laughed, not even needing to ask. “Calm down, I’m not tricking you into eating vegetables,” he said. “They’re just aromatics, for the taste.”

“I’m not putting them in my mouth.”

“You don’t have to, I promise.” He poured out a cup of the tea, blowing gently on it before he offered it to her. “Come on, you didn’t have breakfast, and I know you didn’t eat much of dinner last night either. Just a little bit, for me?”

His beautifully dark eyes were pleading, and despite her disinterest in the food she felt herself melting a little. “Just a little,” she conceded, struggling to sit up more against the mountain of cushions she’d fallen asleep propped up on. Felix held the tea in one hand while fixing the pillows for her with the other, and when he was satisfied that she was comfortable, he handed the mug to her carefully. 

He watched her take a tentative sip of the hot beverage, the corners of his eyes crinkled with concern. “This is the worst it’s been in awhile, love,” he said quietly. “Don’t think that I’m ignorant to how this stuff is hurting you, just because I’m not Force sensitive.” 

Asmi grimaced, the biting spice of the tea settling in her empty belly as she considered his words. “I’m not trying to hide it from you, my love,” she said, just as quietly.

“Please don’t lie to me, Asmi, we both deserve better than that.” 

She sighed, closing her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

She felt the backs of his fingers brushing gently over her cheek, and she opened her eyes again to see him watching her, his head cocked to the side. “I only wanna help, sweetheart,” he said. “It kills me seeing you like this, and not being able to do anything for you.”

Blinking back tears, she offered him a trembling smile. “You do more than you realise, Felix.”

“Isn’t there any way I could take a little bit of the-” 

“No,” she said sharply, immediately. She took a deep breath. “Your heart is in the right place, my love, but no. The weight of the shields, even a fraction of it, would crush you. I...” She swallowed down the ball of emotion in her throat. “I could not forgive myself for letting that happen to you.”

Felix looked distressed, the rough callouses on his palm and fingers nonetheless gentle as he cupped her cheek. “You’re asking me to do the same thing, though, sweetheart,” he said, his voice a little rough with his own restrained emotion. “I can’t watch you waste away like this and do _nothing_.”

“I have an obligation to the Jedi-”

“Damn it, sweetheart, you have an obligation to _yourself_ \- how are you gonna help anyone if you let yourself burn out? If it kills you?”

She didn’t realise the tears had spilled over until his thumb moved to brush one of them away. “I need to protect Tython,” she whispered, her chin trembling. 

His eyes were red as well as he smiled sadly at her, something proud in his eyes nonetheless. “I know,” he whispered back to her. “Stars help me, but I know. I wish it were otherwise, but I wouldn’t change anything about you sweetheart.” 

Asmi reached up, her fingers brushing over his lips; he turned his head slightly to kiss her fingertips, not breaking eye contact, and-

-and the doorbell chimed through the apartment, the pleasant tones immensely unwelcome. Felix’s shoulder’s slumped, a rueful look on his face as Asmi made a noise of frustration and let her head fall back against the mountain of cushions keeping her propped up.

“We could ignore it,” he murmured, already climbing to his feet despite the suggestion.

She closed her eyes, one hand coming up to her forehead to rub wearily at her temples. “I’m not up to receiving social calls,” she said, “see if they’ll leave a message for me to contact them later.”

Felix leaned forward and kissed her on the brow briefly, before making his way out of the room and towards the private lobby of the apartment. Asmi allowed herself to relax, exhausted beyond measure and trying to work up the strength to get through the bowl of broth her husband had so graciously prepared for her. He was right, of course, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a proper meal; she’d been subsisting on meaty soups and dried jerky, both of which were easy enough to get through slowly without worrying about it spoiling if she took her time. 

She’d almost slipped back into a light doze when a voice sounded, far too close for her comfort. “Oh, _Asmi_!”

Startled awake, Asmi jerked forward, knocking the tray beside her and rattling the crockery. Blinking groggily, she found herself staring up into the very familiar holographic projection of a petite human woman. “Holiday?” she said.

“Oh, _Asmi_ , you’re looking so _pale_ ,” Holiday cooed, her hands going up to her mouth in dismay. “Goodness _gracious_ , tell me what I can do for you.”

“I’m sure she doesn’t need the relentless fussing, my dear,” Tharan said gently, coming up behind her. His demure nature with Holiday was such a breathe of fresh air, after the first year they’d travelled together and he’d stubbornly attempted to maintain his uncaring playboy facade; seeing him engage with her so adoringly and with such respect made Asmi happy indeed. “I’m quite certain our dear Jedi is well and truly wearied by such attention.”

From somewhere, she found the strength to offer them a shaky smile. “I wasn’t aware you were dropping by,” she said, struggling to sit up. Felix appeared beside her, an immensely apologetic look in his eyes as he helped her to find a more comfortable position. She squeezed his fingers slightly, just enough to let him know she wasn’t upset at him. “I would have made more of an effort to make myself presentable-”

Tharan made a tsking sound, waving her concerns away as if they were inconsequential. “Now now, my dear Jedi, let’s not forget that we spent almost a year travelling together in the pursuit of Lord Vivicar, hmm? And if memory serves, you spent a good deal of that time in dire need of my services as a physician, for the very same condition that ails you now.”

Alright, he’d made _some_ improvements since settling down with Holiday- reining in his ego and his occasional need to belittle those around him was apparently still a work in progress. “Working to impede the evil of one Sith Lord’s influence is significantly different to shielding the presence of entire planet, Tharan.”

“Actually, that’s what we’ve come to talk to you about!” Holiday said, clapping her hands delightedly. “We’ve got some super duper good news for you, Asmi darling!” 

How could a hologram be so _loud_? 

Felix, apparently anticipating her discomfort, settled himself on the arm of the couch just behind her head, offering her the glass of water and two myocaine tablets. She thought for a moment that her throat was going to close up in protest, but after a nauseating moment they slid down with only a little difficulty; Felix took the glass from her while she sank back against the cushions again, setting it on the side table before letting his hand come to rest against her lekku, stroking it gently. 

“I’ve been reading the reports you’ve sent through regarding the erasure of Tython’s coordinates,” she said, looking at them closely. Holiday looked like she was two seconds away from bursting with giddy excitement, and Tharan looked immensely smug- although honestly, that was his regular expression if she was hard pressed to choose just one that summed him up. “I would’ve thought that leaving the lab during such a taxing process would be too much of a strain on Holiday’s mobile operating platforms.”

Holiday giggled girlishly. “I finished the bulk of the procedure _days_ ago, Asmi dear- so many data streams to sort through, I felt positively bloated afterwards!”

Tharan smiled adoringly at her. “For the most part, we’ve traced and eliminated an estimated eighty three point two seven four percent of all accessible references to Tython on platforms connected to external networks. The other sixteen percent or so is proving stalwart, but we’re refining Holiday’s programing to counter the various firewalls as she meets them.”

“I haven’t had a workout like this in _years_ ,” Holiday gushed. “But my dear Tharan has been _so_ good to me- he’s been working overtime to make sure that not a single one of my processors burns out. Isn’t he just so considerate?”

Behind her, Felix chuckled softly. “I can appreciate a man doing everything he can to keep the person he loves in good health and comfort,” he said; she could practically feel his grin, even if she couldn’t see it from this angle. 

She closed her eyes to stop herself from rolling them. “Alright, so you’ve news other than the coordinate erasure. Let me hear it.”

The edge of the couch dipped, and she cracked open one eye to find Tharan perched beside her legs, his expression exceedingly earnest, at least as far as his expressions went. “My dear Asmi,” he said, putting a hand on over hers. Felix cleared his throat pointedly behind her, and Tharan immediately withdrew it. “As you know, after you were taken ill after the trials with Lord Vivicar were concluded and were too weak to continue in your duties, Holiday and I opted to assist Lord Dawnstar in her work for the Rift Alliance, and her ongoing rivalry with the First Son.”

Asmi smiled weakly. “I’m well aware, Tharan,” she said. “I was unfortunate enough to encounter one of the Children of the Emperor, if you’ll recall.”

“Unfortunate?” Felix nuzzled briefly at one of her montrals. “I seem to recall the incident on Waypoint Station Three being the entire reason we met in the first place.”

“I’m not implying that _you_ are unfortunate, my love,” she murmured. This was clearly a losing battle. “Tharan, please, I’ve no energy for your posturing today. Please, just tell me what it is you’ve uncovered?”

Tharan sighed dramatically. “Very well, I yield to your request. The First Son was shielding _thousands_ of the Children, across the galaxy, before Lord Dawnstar managed to disrupt him, with no noticeable strain or exertion visible to those dealing with him on a daily basis. In fact, there was no indication _at all_ that the shield was taxing on his physical health, or on his ability to wield and access the Force.”

As the implications of his words began to sink in, Asmi found herself sitting up slowly. “But... he had the power of Vitiate behind him,” she said, desperately trying not to get her hopes up. “Surely he was little more than a conduit for something far greater than himself.”

“Perhaps,” Tharan said with a shrug. “But one would assume that a conduit for the might and darkness of the Sith Emperor himself would be perceptible to the members of the Jedi Council, the most powerful Force users in Republic space- and, as we all know, that was not the case.”

Almost subconsciously, Asmi reached up to her shoulder, and Felix took her hand in his, twining their fingers together. “You mean to say you think there’s a chance to construct a shield that won’t kill me,” she said quietly. 

Holiday let out a squeak of delight, practically jumping on the spot. “That’s _precisely_ what my clever Tharan is saying,” she said, clasping her hands in front of her adoringly. “If there’s anyone that can save you, Asmi dear, it’s my Tharan!”

“The question is,” Tharan continued, his expression solemn, “do we take a chance on summoning Master Syo from Tython before our window of opportunity closes and Tython disappears into the Deep Core, or...”

“Or?”

“Or, knowing that it’s likely he himself knows nothing of the First Son’s techniques and may not be of any help to us at all, do we take the initiative and go looking for help from amongst the Sith?”

Stunned silence met his words, and Asmi felt Felix’s fingers tighten around hers. Taking a deep breath, she said “You’ve not discussed this with Lord Dawnstar, have you?”

Tharan shook his head adamantly. “Kylaena was a delightful travelling companion and an exemplary diplomat, but she had no tolerance whatsoever for the Sith. I hardly think that informing her I’ve a mind to adapt a Sith technique for our own private usage will be received very well.”

Felix snorted in amusement. “Well, that’s an understatement,” he said; he and Tharan had met as crew members in Lord Dawnstar’s entourage well before she had met him. 

Asmi’s heart fluttered against her ribs, the prospect of living free of this enduring pain and exhaustion making her hope again for the first time in years. “I take it you’ve got some thoughts on the matter, then.”

“I do, my dear Jedi, indeed I do. With your permission, I have some contacts I’m going to take advantage of to see if I can’t make contact with someone who I’m hoping can help us.” 

“And who would that be?” When he hesitated, she pursed her lips in frustration. “Tharan, as a member of the Jedi High Council and the Council of First Knowledge, I cannot blindly approve contact with the Empire without knowing what it is you intend to do in my name. Who are you planning on contacting?”

“I have no guarantee it will work,” he said placatingly, but then his ego got the better of him and he added, “well, beyond my established brilliance and ability to charm anyone-”

“ _Tharan_.”

“It’s Darth Erras, my dear Asmi. The Lord Wrath.” His smile was far more optimistic than anything she was feeling. “If there’s anyone likely to have explicit knowledge of the secrets of the Emperor himself, it would be the lady who served as his blade in the shadows, yes?”

____

When he awoke the next morning, Thexan lay in bed for a least a good half hour, wondering what in Izax’s name he was doing. He felt like Nahut, grey and formless and lost, alone in the darkness while Zakuul turned its back on him and denied his name; he felt tired in a way that went beyond the physical, and seeped down straight into his soul. 

Was he just supposed to trail aimlessly after the Battlemaster for the rest of his life, never trusted and never independent, not quite imprisoned but certainly not free? 

He felt so miserably, utterly lost and alone, and every time he thought he was beginning to find his feet again- like the night before, when Ona’la had convinced him to deactivate his lightsaber and take supper with her- the doubts would creep in again and sweep it all away, like the tide rushing in to wash away anything left on the shore. 

Now here he was, lying in bed, miserable enough that there were tears in his eyes that he absolutely did not want to acknowledge in any way, letting them run silently down his cheek and onto the pillow while he stared at the far wall. 

He could hear Ona’la moving about in the common area again, making small talk with the house droid, occasionally engaging in longer conversations that were clearly holocalls- once he could have sworn he heard her _singing_ softly. War had been declared and his brother’s armies were descending surely but slowly on the Republic and she was _singing_. If anything that just made him feel _more_ miserable, because for all the trauma she’d endured at the hands of his family, she was so at ease with the Light that joy came to her as easily as breathing. 

He wouldn’t necessarily say that he was jealous of her for that, but it certainly made him cringe away in something vaguely akin to shame. 

After a time he grew too restless to remain abed, his muscles aching from the inactivity; he still felt frustratingly weak when he dragged himself to the edge of the bed and swung his legs over the side, sitting for a moment and rubbing his hand over his eyes. From what he’d understood and managed to eavesdrop on the day before, Ona’la had yet more meetings and conferences to comm in for today, more planning for inevitable confrontation with Zakuul- Arcann would land ground forces eventually, on some unsuspecting world, and Ona’la would of course be the first to rush to the defence of the ignorant citizens because that was what she did. Foolishly throwing her life into danger for the sake of people who would never be grateful and never appreciate the immensity of what she did for them.

_Like you?_

He scowled at the unwanted internal monologue and climbed shakily to his feet, hobbling over to the refresher for his morning ablutions. The hot water in the shower unit helped the tightness in his muscles, perhaps, but it did little for the tension in his head, his thoughts all twisted up and around one another in a painful mess. 

The mirror was not as fogged up as he would have liked once he stepped out to towel himself dry, and his reflection did not ease the conflict in his heart. Even with the ugly scar across his belly, even with his hair starting to grow out after weeks without maintenance, there was still too much of Arcann in the image, still too many moments when he could very easily have let his mind wander and allow himself the fantasy of believing it was his brother out of the corner of his eye, and not just a mirror. 

He had darker hair than Arcann, anyway, he reminded himself. If it was supposed to be believably Arcann, the hair would have been far lighter, verging on sandy brown instead of black. 

It helped. A little. 

Not knowing whether Ona’la intended to trot him out today as her own personal war trophy, he had no idea what he should be expected to wear. There were still tiny scraps of his pride remaining somewhere in his bruised and battered ego, and he didn’t exactly want to dress like a lout if she intended to drag him before the Senate. 

At some point during the previous afternoon, while he’d been in the grips of his existential crisis in the main hall, either Ona’la or the droid had gone through his room and tidied the clothing he’d pulled out of storage earlier that morning. It was all neatly folded, or hanging back on display, as if his outburst had never happened. 

He wasn’t sure whether to be grateful that she’d not made an issue of his childishness, or whether to be insulted that she’d swept up the evidence of his displeasure without discussion. 

Thexan closed his eyes, fists clenched at his sides as he warred with himself. _For once in your life, accept a kindness offered to you without contempt._

When he opened his eyes again, his hands shook a little as he reached for the cabinet that held his clothing. He ignored it. 

He’d flicked through most of the clothing the night before, so he had a good idea of the selection therein; pants were easy enough, as was the short-cut tunic he tugged on in place of a shirt, but his hand lingered on a long cloak hanging towards the back.

The cloak was white, and undeniably Jedi in its stylings, despite the fine quality of the material and the exquisite detail in the embroidery. He’d avoided it last night when he’d attempted to sort through the clothing he’d strewn about in his tantrum, because white garments had too many associations with his father, and with Arcann, for him to feel entirely comfortable wearing it. But now... well, if he was sorting through the clothing she’d bought for him and trying to accept it for the kind gesture it was and not a manipulation on her part, he had to try it on, then, didn’t he? Maybe it would be symbolic, some sort of acknowledgement of what he was leaving behind. 

He could wear white now, because he was no longer one of them. He could wear whatever he wanted, he didn’t have a public image to maintain any more. 

It was hooded, he saw, as he tugged it from the cabinet and held it in his hands. And very- it was _very_ white, like father’s royal garments, and like Arcann’s formal armour, and that didn’t matter, now, did it? Who cared if his hands were shaking as he held it, it was his and he was a long way from both of them and he was- he was not the man they thought he was, he was not the man even _he’d_ thought he was, he could wear this and it would mean _nothing_. It would be a step, away from them and towards something else, towards being someone else, and that- that was good. Right?

The mirror. He would look in the mirror, and see that it suited him just fine, and that he could wear what he pleased because he was different now. Stuffing his arms into the sleeves and tugging the hood up over his head, he stepped back into the refresher, hoping the mirror wouldn’t still be murky from the steam, and-

-and looked up to see Arcann staring back at him. 

It was possible he made a noise of distress, he wasn’t sure- it was also possible that he’d stood there for hours, staring in horrified longing at his reflection, and that his absence had come to be concerning, and Ona’la had come looking for him. Whatever it was, something had alerted her to his peculiar situation, and he saw the rich blue of her skin resolve in the mirror behind him, her deep purple eyes crinkled with concern. 

“Thexan?”

“My hair is darker,” he blurted out, a panicked edge to the words. “It’s- it’s not him.”

For a moment, her brow furrowed as she puzzled over his words, and then a look of understanding dawned in her eyes. “It is darker,” she agreed softly, moving carefully to stand next to him. He was gripping the edge of the counter so hard that it was a wonder he hadn’t warped or cracked the stone, and she very slowly put her hand over his. “You are not Arcann, are you? You’re very different men, physically and emotionally.”

“It’s not him.”

“It’s not,” she said, none of her movements rushed or furtive. The hood fell away from his head, as she tugged it free, and then she was coaxing it carefully off of his shoulders. “Tell me what else is different, tell me all the obvious differences that are plain as day to you.”

He didn’t resist as she peeled the white away from him. The tunic beneath it was a deep maroon with brassy military style buttons, very different to anything his father or his brother might have worn. “I have a scar,” he said, gesturing to the small pockmark that sat beneath his right eyebrow. “And he- his face was a little wider. More squarish.”

“It is, you’re right about that,” she said, her tone even and gentle and not at all judgemental or pitying. “Thank you for pointing that out. Was there anything else?”

“His left ear sticks out further than mine,” he said, then hesitated. “Used to stick out more. With- now he wears the mask, I don’t-”

“Shhh,” she soothed, sliding his hands free of the sleeves. “Do you have any more, or would you like to stop for now?”

“I’d like to stop,” he whispered, hating himself for the way his voice shook, hating himself for the weakness. 

She took the cloak from him, her fingers brushing against his as she did so, and she set it down on the small bench of the refresher. He expected her to leave it at that, maybe with a pitying look at his foolishness as she departed, but this was Ona’la, and she never just left things alone when she had an opportunity to do otherwise. He should have learned that by now. 

She took his hand in hers, her fingers twining through his, apparently content to politely ignore the way he jerked briefly at the unexpected contact; she came to stand beside him at the basin, as if this tiny refresher was the most obvious place to conduct small chit-chat. “Tell me about him, then,” she said, the request so out of the blue that for a moment he could only stare at her in the mirror. After a few long heartbeats, he realised the inanity of glaring at her via the mirror and turned his head to look at her; she returned his look with tattooed eyebrows raised in query, her eyes curious and completely without malice. 

His hand twitched in hers. “Why?”

“I want to know more about him- he’s clearly very important to you.”

Thexan scowled, the emotions in him still too raw to stand up against her teasing. “You just want to know more about him so that you can use that information against him.”

Her lips quirked with the hint of a smile, as if she was fighting to hide it. “And why would I do that?” she asked politely. 

“I’m not a fool. Arcann declared war on your Republic, it is in your best interest to explore and exploit any weaknesses you can- it’s why you kept me alive, is it not?”

“It is _not_ ,” she said, gently but firmly. “You were willing to die for your brother, when his death would have secured your place as your father’s heir. You make excuses for him even as he denies you. I want to know more about him because he’s important to _you_ , so that makes him important to _me_.”

She was honestly so bewildering. “But _why_?” he asked, his frustration making his voice crack slightly. 

Ona’la’s smile was somewhat sad, and for a moment her eyes grew distant, as if her thoughts were elsewhere. “I would have hoped by now that my actions would have spoken for themselves, and it would be apparent that your physical health and happiness are important to me,” she said quietly.

“That wasn’t my question, and you know it.”

“Is it so much to accept that I want to see you safe and comfortable?” she asked, sounding exasperated. “Are we going to have the same conversation daily, Thexan? I could write it out on prompt cards, to streamline the process.”

He scowled again, his jaw clenching as he fought back a scathing retort. She hadn’t dropped his hand when he’d begun snarling at her, and the warmth of her smaller hand in his was... something. Peculiar. She was direct with him, but never mocking, even when he would have expected it. He breathed out sharply through his nose, fighting the instinct in him to shut down and walk away from such inanity, but... 

He was staring at his own reflection when he finally spoke. “I don’t even know where I would start,” he said quietly. 

The inevitable questions- his weaknesses, his fears, anything that might be able to exploited- did not come. Instead she said “What was your favourite game as children?”

It startled him so much that it jerked him out of his thoughts, turning to face her; she mirrored his movements, turning to him in the small space the refresher provided with his hand held carefully in hers. “I-” The accusation was on his lips, _I don’t see how that’s any concern of yours_ , but he managed to stop himself. He swallowed nervously, licking his lips when he realised how dry they were; her eyes darted to his mouth for a fraction of a second before returning to his. “I think- I think it was something to do with piloting spaceships,” he said stiltedly. “When we learned how to use the Force for levitation, we would take turns hurling each other onto our beds from the far end of the room. To pretend we were crashing pilots.”

He wasn’t sure what reaction he was expecting from her, but what he got was absolutely not it at all- she _laughed_ , her entire face lighting up as she raised her free hand up to cover her mouth. Everything in her lit up with delight, her eyes sparkling; for a moment, she was transformed, and he was transfixed by it. 

“That’s remarkably ingenious,” she said, smiling warmly, “if a little macabre. Well, actually, for children, that’s probably a perfectly acceptable level of macabre. I’m glad the younglings I cared for never got that clever.”

He couldn’t tell if it was a compliment or not. 

“Who was the instigator of such mischief, I wonder?” she asked, her eyes shining with amusement. He’d had time to think on it since the first time he’d seen her eyes- when he’d woken up dazed and dismayed in the med bay of the Republic cruiser- and he was more inclined to consider them closer to indigo now, rather than violet. A remarkable colour, were they back on Zakuul, but he had seen all manner of oddities and rarities since she had saved him, and they shouldn’t have been so mesmerizingly infinite by now. “Was it the more tempestuous brother, as reckless in childhood as he seems to be in adulthood? Or was it the far more sensible brother, succumbing to frivolity in the company of someone who brought out a lighter side in him?” 

His heart was beating a little faster than normal- it must have just been a residual side effect of the stress of seeing a shadow of Arcann in his reflection. “What makes you think I was the sensible one?” he asked, surprised at himself for how easily the words came. 

The delighted smile she bestowed on him made his heartbeat quicken further. “I did not say you _were_ , Thexan,” she said, almost conspiratorially. 

“You make rather undiplomatic assumptions, Battlemaster,” he said, and if he didn’t know better he would have said she was _flirting_ with him. That was impossible, however, because she’d made it abundantly clear that she did not indulge in that sort of nonsense, and if it ever were to be of interest to her, she wouldn’t choose him. 

“Funnily enough, I am not the Diplomacymaster of the Order for that very reason,” she quipped, “and now you have me at a disadvantage, your Highness, because if I had agreed that you were the sensible brother, you would have found issue with that as well.”

Hearing her call him by his title after the last few weeks of growing familiarity between them should have been jarring, a reminder of everything that stood between them, but instead there was something about it that was just a little bit thrilling. The feigned formality was like a game. “You think me so disagreeable, Battlemaster?” 

If he hadn’t been watching her so raptly, he might have missed the moment when she bit her lip. “I would never suggest such a thing, your Highness,” she murmured. “Consider it simply an observation, on how one might expect such a conversation to play out.”

“Do you normally admit to such suspicions and forethought when asking a simple question about childhood gaming?”

“Perhaps I’ve simply a desire to stay on my toes around you, your Highness.”

The refresher was a small room to start with, with not a great deal of space to move, but that still didn’t explain how they’d come to be standing so much closer. “And how does one come to be so adept at staying on their toes for such prolonged periods of time? Was dance something that occupied _your_ childhood hours, Battlemaster?”

He saw the sparkle in her eyes die instantly, and though she was smiling still, there was something hesitant about it, something guarded. “I’m afraid my hours were spent in far more serious endeavours than dancing, Thexan,” she said, not quite meeting his gaze. “The foreman in the mine I was owned by was not much one for encouraging frivolity.”

If the ground had swallowed him up in that moment, he would not have been happier. 

She cleared her throat, a rather obvious distraction, and withdrew her hand from his. “In any case, it’s nice to hear that you were able to find moments of happiness with your brother,” she said, and he could all but feel her withdrawing from him. “Perhaps later this morning you’d be inclined to indulge me in more stories.”

And then she was gone, the refresher door hissing closed behind her. 

All she’d wanted to do was take his mind off of Arcann, and calm him down- and she’d succeeded at both, apparently. He felt like a child for having fallen for so obvious a ploy, and for being so foolish as to believe for a brief moment that she might have actually enjoyed his company. For a few minutes he’d forgotten he was a prisoner and a war criminal in the eyes of her people, and indulged in the fantasy that he was just a man like any other and that they might possibly be friends. 

His cheeks burned with humiliation, and he closed his eyes in the hope that when he opened them again he’d be waking up in his bed and this would have been just an unpleasantly pleasant dream. 

But when he opened them again, he was still standing in the refresher, and the scent of her lingered in the air, and his hand was still warm where she’d held it in hers for so long. Held it until he’d reminded her of the cruelty she’d endured as a child, of course, and the hugely insurmountable gap between their lives. How could he have forgotten, how could he have been so _stupid_? Of course he knew what she’d gone through as a child, he’d read her file extensively as a part of their preparations for the invasion, undoubtedly some of the information tainted by Vitiate’s ongoing fascination with her, and... and he _knew_ she’d not been allowed the luxury of a childhood, what in Izax’s name had possessed him to say something so utterly thoughtless?

He groaned, leaning forward until his head came to rest against the cold wall. It took him far too long to realise that she’d taken the cloak away too- even when he’d so brutishly poked at her oldest wounds, she’d taken a moment to see to his comfort, to make sure the cloak would not remain to cause him distress. 

By the bleeding Heart of Scyva, was this woman capable of being selfish in any capacity at all? Did she ever stop to think about herself, ever?

_Apologise._

Yes, that was it. He could do that, he’d apologised to people before, his father had practically made it a requirement of talking to him, having to apologise for taking up his time and for not living up to his impossible standards and for failing him in a myriad of ways. Apologising wasn’t hard, he could definitely work out how to do that. All he had to do was march out there after her and take her hand again and hold it like he’d been holding it a moment earlier and then tell her he was sorry for reminding her that she’d been a slave _by all the stars in the cosmos what is_ wrong _with you_?

His hands were on his head, as if they were poised to try and claw the stupidity out of his brain by force alone, and with great difficulty he removed them, his arms stiff and heavy at his sides as he marched from the refresher. 

_Apologise, and do it without reminding her again what she went through, stars, just be polite and say sorry, what is so hard about-_

He came to a stop just outside his bedroom, because Ona’la was still on her feet as well, her back to him as she stared at the woman on the holographic display in front of her. 

“-don’t understand how you obtained my contact information,” Ona’la was saying, her voice somewhat stunned. “My direct line is highly classified information, for what I would hope are obvious reasons.”

Thexan came up slowly behind her, his gaze on the woman on the holographic display- she stood relatively at ease compared to the tension that had Ona’la standing rigid. He recognised her, despite the poor quality of the connection and the small display, because it would be impossible for him not to recognise her- Tahrin Dara. The Wrath, Darth Erras, one of the children secretly engineered from the preserved DNA of Darth Revan herself. The one woman in the galaxy whom his father had been more desperate to capture than Ona’la, for obvious reasons. She had kept herself concealed and out of sight during their invasion of Korriban, their attempts to draw her into the open in the defence of the Empire failing miserably. 

“I suspect they are the very same reasons I go to such pains to keep my own contact information obscured,” Lord Dara said, the crisp Imperial accent sounding far more abrasive to his ears than she probably intended it to be. She’d startled Ona’la to the point of fear, and that made him particularly disinclined to like her. “But I have resources, and I had need of your counsel, ergo I needed to take the risk.”

Ona’la’s laugh was somewhat disbelieving. “You have need of _my_ counsel, Wrath? What could you possibly need from me at a time like this?”

“You’d be surprised,” Lord Dara said calmly, her hands clasped behind her back and her chin held high. She didn’t look at all perturbed to be chatting with a woman who by rights should have been her sworn enemy. “I shall be blunt, Battlemaster, for I’ve no talent for word games or diplomacy. I would like to meet with you, and your guest.”

Thexan stiffened, unaware that she’d been able to sense him; he’d thought himself to be outside of visual range of the comm unit. 

“You’ll forgive me if I find such a request to be suspicious, Lord Wrath, given the circumstances. It would be in the Empire’s best interests to acquire a prisoner as high profile as his Highness.”

“Perhaps, but I do not speak on behalf of the Empire.” Here her gaze shifted, and Thexan understood immediately why her file had described her as _glacial_ when her eyes fell upon him. She shouldn’t even have been able to _see_ him, and yet her gaze locked with his quite easily. “Nor do I speak on behalf of the Dark Council, if that is to be your next accusation. I simply seek the counsel and prowess of a woman I consider to be my equal, for a task that few will understand or even acknowledge as logical.”

“And what might that be?”

Lord Dara broke Thexan’s gaze and he took a shuddering breath, horrified by the way his skin crawled with the cold after such a brief interaction. “Why, the pursuit of the Emperor,” she said. “For as grandiose as Vitiate attempted to make his death on Zakuul, he is very much _not_ dead, and he has already tried once to kill your guest. I suspect he will try again, and if he is allowed to regain strength through the chaos employed by his children, then I do not think we will have the resources or the manpower to defeat him again.” 

____

“Battlemaster, this is hardly an opportune time for another session of the High Council, not so soon after the last,” Master Bestros said, the holographic image of the Miralukan flickering, as if expressing his displeasure. “Time is of the essence, after all, with the Eternal Empire drawing closer by the moment.”

“I understand, Master Bestros, and normally I would not be so blunt, but something has come to my attention that I believe requires the input of the Council as a whole, not my voice as an individual.” Ona’la was seated calmly in the plush chair, the rest of the circle of faces turned towards her, and Thexan was aggressively aware of the hostility being projected towards him as he stood behind her, even from those who were in attendance as holograms. 

That hardly mattered, however, because he was still reeling from the claim that his _father_ , his _dead_ father, was most likely behind the attempt on his life several weeks earlier. 

Would the ludicrously bizarre twists and turns his life was taking never cease?

“Is the Prince’s presence really necessary, Battlemaster?” Master Hervoz said, his expression pained. 

Ona’la’s voice did not even waver under such scrutiny. “Prince Thexan is already aware of everything I am about to tell you,” she said calmly, a hint of steel threaded through her voice. “And given that it concerns his wellbeing, and his family, I feel it is only courteous to involve him in any discussion.”

“It is highly irregular for outsiders to be present for a meeting of the Jedi High Council,” Lady Amaara said, as gentle as she was blunt. 

“Irregular, yes, but not unheard of,” Ona’la said. “I would rather not stop to debate the intricacies of Council law and conduct, given that time is of the essence.”

To her left, Satele waved her hand in acknowledgement. “Speak then, Battlemaster, let’s have this done as quickly as possible.”

Ona’la didn’t glance back at him, but for some absurd reason he had the strongest impression that she _wanted_ to. “I have been contacted by the Wrath. Darth Erras seeks to meet with me because she believes she has proof that the Emperor lives. She proposed a collaboration, to prevent him from regaining his power.” 

Such an announcement was, understandably, met with a loud babbling outcry, as a number of the Masters sought to speak at the same time; Thexan fought the urge to roll his eyes at the disorder, somewhat pettily amused at how quickly their precious attempts at democratic process turned to nothing but squabbling. 

“My fellow Masters, if you would _please_.” Grand Master Shan’s voice rose above the noise, and the debate fell away rather quickly. Satisfied, but her mouth still a tight line of displeasure, Satele turned to Ona’la. “You would not be here seeking our counsel as a whole if you did not think she was telling the truth.”

“That is correct,” Ona’la said calmly. “I believe her. I wish to meet with her, and see what she has to say.”

“That is the most absurdly reckless thing I have ever heard proposed in this chamber,” Master Bestros said, “and I spent years keeping my mouth shut whenever Jaric started speaking.”

His words drew a smattering of laughter from some of the older Masters, but Satele waved them to silence. “We will not speak ill of the dead,” she said, frowning in the direction of the Miralukan Jedi. “Ona’la, you must realise that now more than ever, we cannot afford to go chasing shadows.”

“I know,” she said, and she finally hesitated, the first crack in the facade of her surety. Thexan wanted to put his hand on her shoulder, for strength, but instead he kept them clasped behind his back. “But I trust Lord Dara’s judgement, and what she risked sharing with me over holo... the evidence is troubling. It cannot hurt to meet with her, and see what she has to say, because if Vitiate truly is simply biding his time for another revival, it is far better to have the combined resources of both factions when we face him.”

“And what does that have to do with his Highness’ presence here in the chamber?” Master Dawnstar said, her expression inscrutable. 

“Whether Vitiate intends to return as Valkorion or whether he has another form in mind, Prince Thexan is still tied to him,” Ona’la said, a hint of something defensive in her tone. “Lord Dara believes that the assassination attempt when we arrived on Coruscant was undertaken by a member of the Imperial Guard.”

That caused a murmur to pass around the chamber, more than one of the Masters looking troubled by such claims. “Had we heard anything about that?” Master Kiwiiks said, leaning closer to Satele where she sat on the other side of her. 

Satele was frowning, her chin resting in her hand. “The Supreme Chancellor had not shared anything of that nature with me,” she said calmly, even though her brow was furrowed with concern. “I will speak to the Supreme Commander, and ascertain whether there were any military personnel involved in the investigation. If there has been a cover-up, we need to know why.”

“The point remains, however,” Ona’la continued, “that if Vitiate prefers for Thexan to be dead, then it is in our best interest to keep him alive.”

“Vitiate has never needed a reason for his madness,” Gnost-Dural said. “For all we know, the boy’s death was never intended to be anything more than an amusement for him.” 

Thexan stiffened in annoyance, and this time Ona’la did glance back, her hand going up slightly as if she thought she’d need to catch his arm if he attempted to storm past her. For a moment they made eye contact, and after a heartbeat or two, he subsided, scowling as he settled back into place behind her. Ona’la relaxed slowly, only breaking his gaze at the last moment as she turned back to the rest of the Council. “Be that as it may,” she said, “anything that thwarts Vitiate’s desires can only empower us in turn.”

“So you want to meet with the Wrath, and take Prince Thexan with you,” Bestros said. “Has it occurred to you at all that you are very likely walking into a trap?”

“Of course, Bestros, please do not presume I come to you like a giddy child- I am well aware of the severity of my claims, and the immense consequences should I misjudge them. It is why I came to the Council, rather than tearing off unannounced.”

Satele was staring off into the distance, a pensive look on her face. “You cannot go alone,” she said, her voice unhappy but her expression grimly resigned. “You should take another of the Masters with you, at the very least.”

“I can take Kira with me, if she is-”

“Miss Carsen is already on assigned duties in the Expansion Regions, and will not return in any timely fashion should we recall her.”

Master Adhi, attending by way of holographic projection, cleared her throat. “I would be happy to travel with the Battlemaster,” she said, speaking for the first time in the session.

“You are far too unwell for such an undertaking, Barsen’thor, although I admire your courage.” Thexan, watching the exchange closely, saw the brief flicker of despairing irritation that passed over Master Adhi’s face before she masked her emotions again. How intriguing. “Do we have any other volunteers?”

A tall, dark-skinned human woman whom he did not recognise- a new addition to the Council, obviously, but she had to have been a senior Jedi prior to her appointment, surely? Yet he could not place her face or dredge up a name for her at all, and he wondered whether there’d been a file on her at all in Zakuul’s intelligence databanks- raised her hand tentatively. “Grand Master, I would be honoured to accompany the Battlemaster on such a task,” she said, her voice clearly nervous. “If there are no objections, of course.” 

“I have none,” Ona’la said, beaming warmly at her across the chamber. 

“Then it’s settled,” Satele said, leaning forward, “Battlemaster Ona’la and Master Xo will meet with the Lord Wrath. I trust you will take every necessary precaution, both with the Wrath and with Prince Thexan.”

“You have my word, Grand Master.”

Then something happened that he was not expecting- the Grand Master turned in her chair and looked directly at him, her steely blue gaze cutting right into him. “And you, your Highness? If I’m to butt heads with the Supreme Chancellor about your right to leave Coruscant, what have you to say for yourself?”

Thexan hadn’t prepared himself to speak during the Council session- he’d held several cutting remarks in reserve, in case the need should arise to snarl his feelings on the individuals in the room. He hadn’t at all expected to be asked for his _opinion_.

He gaped at her for a moment, his cheeks heating as he struggled to find the words, before he managed to force out “I have no interest in aiding my father, in whatever form he might take.”

“Acknowledged, but what of your brother?”

His jaw clenched, and he opened his mouth to spit out something venomous, when he felt Ona’la take his fingers in her hand; she couldn’t reach him in the awkward angle of the chair, but she’d twisted about to look up at him solemnly. The words died on his tongue, and with great difficulty he swallowed down the cruelly aggressive retort he’d been about to make. “Zakuul has no interest in me,” he said stiltedly. 

“I didn’t ask after Zakuul, your Highness, I asked after _your_ intentions.” 

“You mean will I attempt to contact my brother the moment we break atmosphere over Coruscant, spilling all the secrets I’ve learned about holding cell three seven zero beneath the Senate Tower? I’m sure he’ll find such information _immensely_ helpful with any invasion he plans.”

The creature he recognised as Master Nobil hissed out something that sounded like a laugh. “You’ve offended the young pup, Shan.”

“Hmph,” she said in response, although her mouth twitched for a moment as if she was about to smile. She nodded, looking exceedingly wearied. “Very well. Let’s find out what the Wrath has to say for herself.”


	22. Chapter 22

“This doesn’t look quite like the standard model Defender-class,” Ona’la said as they crossed the hangar bay towards the waiting ship. 

Walking along beside her, Xolani smiled. “Perceptive of you, Battlemaster,” she said, watching the young woman as she took in the details of the corvette. She’d never had a chance to work with Master Ona’la in the field before, but she remembered the solemn young girl who’d sat quietly reading to the younglings in the groves of Tython, neglecting her own lessons in order to care for children only a few years younger than her who were likely just as scarred by the war and the attack on the temple as she was. 

She had shown a tendency early on to throw herself wholeheartedly into the protection and nurturing of others, as a means of healing herself- and judging by the young man trailing sullenly behind them, her methods had not changed in adulthood. 

“The hull is slightly wider, I think? I mean, the bronze instead of the red obviously makes a difference to perception, but I think it’s wider, and flares more towards the rear?” 

From behind them, the young man made a noise of frustration. “The dimensions more closely mimic the Thranta-class corvette that the civilian model was based off of, which implies that this is an earlier design that probably adheres closer to the schematics of the Vanguard, the prototype for this class of cruiser.”

Xolani blinked in astonishment at the young prince’s arrogance, but Ona’la simply turned to him with a smile. “You’ve not told me you had an interest in the history of starship design,” she said warmly. How she did it with a straight face and managed not to snap at him for his rudeness was utterly beyond her. “If the opportunity presents itself, we could visit the Corellian Museum of Starships sometime in the future.”

“I have no interest in their history, only in their flaws. It was expected of me to know the layout and weaknesses of all prominent usage vehicles in Republic space, to better understand how to disable and destroy them.”

Xolani was quite certain that her eyebrows were about to vanish into her hairline, and it was only through sheer force of will that she kept her face turned forward as they approached the passenger ramp. She knew that if she tried to scold the prince for his abhorrent disrespect, it would only end badly. 

She bit the inside of her cheek and did her best to ignore him. 

Ona’la, however, seemed not to be perturbed by him in the slightest. “You must forgive Thexan, Master Xo, he did not take well to the news the Wrath brought us. He resorts to childish threats when he finds himself out of his depth.” 

“I am _not_ out of my depth!”

“Then please apologise to Master Xo for implying that it is your intention to destroy her ship. It is very kind of her to offer up her craft to us, and it saves us from several days worth of delays we would have suffered waiting for a corvette to be made available for us.” Xolani noticed as she reached the ramp that Ona’la had stopped several steps behind her, and schooled her features to calm before turning back to the pair of them. Prince Thexan was standing with the posture of a petulant child, rather than a hostile warrior- interesting, that-, and with his shoulders slightly hunched and his chin held low as he stared sullenly at Ona’la, it struck her very abruptly that she was not looking at a man resentful of his captivity and planning for violence, as so many of the other Masters on the Council had warned her. Rather, she was looking at a young man who was bad-tempered for the simple fact that he was being _scolded_. 

She’d spent enough of her early years in the creche, helping to raise younglings who struggled to comprehend the immensity of their powers and who missed their families and who squalled and bickered and wailed as all children were wont to do. She knew what someone looked like when they were sulking, and the young prince before her was most definitely sulking. 

Not that that made his comments about knowing how to disable and destroy the ship any less ominous, but it certainly put his character in a new light. She’d seen the footage from the preliminary invasion months earlier, usually taken at a distance and never with an opportunity for them to study their opponents in any great detail; when she’d been warned that he was a violent, calculating field general, she’d not argued the point, because she’d seen the images from the battlefields that supported such warnings. 

What had happened in the meantime for that cold, ruthless warrior to transform into this sullen, brooding churl?

“Thexan,” the Battlemaster said patiently, “I would like you to apologise.”

The young man in question clenched his jaw for a moment, as if he was swallowing down a retort; he glanced at her quickly, making eye contact for the briefest second before his gaze skittered away again. “You have my apologies, Master Xo,” he said stiltedly. “I did not mean to imply I was going to attack your craft.”

“She is not used to your manner of thinking,” Ona’la went on, and Xolani watched the way he relaxed marginally when she placed her hand on his arm. Even more interesting. “Your bluntness takes some getting used to, but I’m sure she’ll appreciate your comprehensive knowledge and your insights just as much as I do, given time.”

Xolani watched as the young prince relaxed further, his shoulders almost slumping in relief, and it took everything in her not to point out the obvious in what she was seeing. “Apology accepted,” she said instead, looking carefully to Master Ona’la to see if there was anything in her body language to give her away as well. She was beaming at him, clearly delighted, but nothing that particular made her suspect...

Well. No point in idle speculation, that was hardly fitting of a Jedi, now, was it? Especially not a Jedi Master, a title which had sat comfortably for years now, and certainly not a member of the High Council, a far newer title which sat far less comfortably over her shoulders. 

It did not feel like any sort of recognition of her skills and service, so much as it did a reminder of her greatest and most horrifying failure. 

Tucking her hands into the sleeves of her silken bronze travel robe, she nodded her head towards the ramp. “Shall we get ourselves settled?” she asked, smiling genially at them. “The refuelling should be done in the next half hour, and it would be best if we could depart as soon as possible.” 

“Agreed,” Ona’la said, turning back to her. The two of them made their way up the ramp towards the access port, and after a moment’s hesitation Thexan followed behind them. “Is this model still equipped to carry five?”

“We’ll not have to share quarters, if that’s what you’re asking Battlemaster,” Xolani said with a chuckle, deactivating the door lock with the passcode. The seals disengaged and it slid open quietly, the interior lighting up in anticipation for boarding. “The Sixth Line may have been unorthodox in some of our principles, but the need for personal space was not among them. The ship is still fully fitted with crew quarters for five, all singular bunk spaces.” 

As they came up the stairs to the main deck, the steward droid came tottering down from the upper deck, enthusiastically welcoming them and running through the standard initial contract statement. She didn’t recognise the droid, and realised with a sinking heart that it was very likely that the original steward droid had been destroyed in the destruction of Ziost. 

That was a painfully horrifying reminder she didn’t need. 

“Wonderful,” Ona’la was saying, and Xolani tore herself away from her bleak thoughts to focus on the young twi’lek woman before her. “I’m quite happy to take the quarters on the upper deck, if-”

Xolani’s heart lurched up into her throat. “Nonsense,” she said, waving her hand to dismiss the idea. “The main cabin should always go to the captain of the vessel.”

Ona’la laughed, apparently thinking her to be jesting. “While I appreciate the offer, Master Xo, this is a Sixth Line vessel first and foremost-”

“The Sixth Line are defunct, Battlemaster,” Xolani said, the words coming out a little more bluntly than she intended them to, if Ona’la’s startled expression was anything to go by. “It was an interesting experiment for interesting times, but the Sixth Line are not coming back from the dead. This is a Council mission, and as the senior ranking Council member, that makes you the superior officer aboard this ship. I quite happily defer to you in this matter.”

Ona’la looked like she was about to argue, her brow furrowed in concern and her lips pursed as she considered her words, but before she could speak, the third member of their party spoke his mind. 

“Are we going to just stand in the stairwell the entire trip?” Thexan asked, voice dripping with sarcasm. This time Xolani did roll her eyes, her patience worn thin by the escalating reminders of the wife she had lost to madness and the life she had lost to a tyrant. “If you’re just going to argue over beds for several days, I’d prefer to go and find one of my own.”

Xolani turned to him, pleased that the fact that he was standing several steps lower in the stairwell meant that she could loom over him. “Young man,” she said, her voice deceptively pleasant, “while I will defer to the Battlemaster on most issues, I will let you know right now that your attitude is not welcome on my vessel. You are my guest, but if you continue to _act_ like a twelve year old child, I will _treat_ you like a twelve year old child, and that includes assigning a time-out corner.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ona’la’s hand go up to her mouth, and she wasn’t sure whether it was to hide a gasp or to muffle a giggle. The prince, for his part, seemed to be teetering between rage and mortification, which in itself was nothing spectacularly threatening. 

She hadn’t reached this age dealing with Force-sensitive toddlers and warmongering Sith without learning not to bat an eyelid at torrential outbursts of emotion. 

The sullen princeling, however, seemed to be a quick study. 

He bowed his head towards her, keeping his eyes downcast, even as a vein stood out in his neck as he clenched his jaw yet again. “My apologies, Master Xo, I did not mean to appear ungrateful,” he said, his voice pitched low. “If you would be so kind as to point me in the direction of a suitable bunk, I will get out from under foot for the launch.” 

She stared down at the top of his head for a moment longer, letting him stew, before nodding to herself. “I appreciate a young man with the good sense to be respectful,” she said. “There’s a room off of the upper deck, take it with my blessing.”

“Much obliged,” he said quietly, angling himself to move between them and take the last half dozen steps up to the upper deck. He didn’t even need to glance around to know which alcove held the private quarters, turning unfailingly to the left and vanishing from sight. It wasn’t exactly a clear cut indication that he knew the model as well as he’d alluded to in the hangar bay, but it was another notch in that column. 

She’d have to watch him carefully. 

“I’m so sorry for Thexan’s behaviour, Master Xo,” Ona’la said quietly, drawing her back to the present. “He’s been... I thought he’d been better these last few days.”

Xolani smiled faintly, taking note of the way the young woman bit her lip in consternation as she stared up towards the upper deck. “I’m surprised he has a civil tongue in him at all,” she said, instead of making an observation on Ona’la’s body language. “I must confess, he was far more pleasant than I was expecting. Not even an escort guard?”

Ona’la’s smile was weak, and there was still a trace of apprehension in her eyes. “I’m trying to win his trust,” she said, “and I can’t very well do that if I have him dragged about in chains every few minutes.”

“Battlemaster, I daresay you already have his trust.” _And I’d wager you have a good deal more than that, too._ “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to get settled in before launch.”

She turned to take the stairs down to the lower deck, only for Ona’la to stop her with a hand on her arm. 

“Where are you going?”

“To the medical bay- there’s a small room off of there that’s intended to be used by the ship’s physician.”

“But- why?”

“Because as the only qualified healer amongst our number, it really makes the most sense for me to take up that position, yes?” 

Ona’la’s brow was furrowed again. “I’m sorry, I just would’ve assumed that...” When she glanced towards the front of the ship, near towards where the main cabin was, it was obvious what she wasn’t saying- _I would’ve thought you’d prefer to keep the quarters you used to share with your wife._

Xolani managed a smile from somewhere, although it was thin and strained. “A Jedi must not be bound by attachments, Master Ona’la,” she said, a warning for the young woman and a reminder for herself. “There is nothing for me there but ghosts and distractions, and I can afford neither right now.” 

The Battlemaster did not call after her as she made her way down to the aft section of the ship, and for that she was grateful. 

She didn’t really know how much more well-meaning kindness she could bear right now. 

____

It felt odd. To be walking through rooms that seemed so familiar, the layout so comforting to her that she could have navigated with her eyes closed, and yet to feel alien and out of place. The interior design of Master Xo’s ship was identical to the Defender she had called home for years, so much so that she half expected to catch a glimpse of Kira out of the corner of her eye, or hear T7 whistling cheerfully for her attention.

But the halls were empty, the ship clean and tidy and without a heart, and it seemed like yet another fitting reminder of how out of place she’d felt since she’d returned to the world. The only constant since she’d awoken was Thexan, and he seemed determined to keep her at an arm’s length. 

Now she was turning her back on the Republic, in the midst of a war, in order to meet with one of the most powerful sith in the galaxy. 

Perhaps someday soon her life would make sense again. 

The main cabin was tidy and pleasantly appointed, the sheets fresh on the bed and the storage hatches open in preparation for her personal items. It was with some wry amusement that she stepped over the satchels on the floor, all of which she recognised as her own supplies; clearly Master Xo had made her mind up some time ago as to the sleeping arrangements, if she’d directed the hangar bay crew to store Ona’la’s things in the main cabin without consulting her on it first. 

She dropped her bag down on the bed, taking in the room that was so much like her own and yet so foreign. It was in a room very much like this one that she’d grieved for the loss of Orgus, the Master who’d been more like a father to her. It was in a room very much like this one that she’d lain awake in for days on end, shaking and cold and delusional, as she sought to shake off the lingering tendrils of Vitiate’s influence in her mind. It was in a room very much like this one that she’d somehow found the strength to climb from bed day after day after day to face the unending spectre of war and death. 

_That’s in the past,_ she reminded herself, as she began tucking the satchels away in the storage hatches for safe-keeping during the launch. _It’s a new day, a new goal._

A new war. 

She had hoped that Thexan might have been inclined to join them on the bridge when it came time to depart, but there was no sign of him. When she risked taking a glance up onto the upper deck, she found the door to his quarters still closed. 

There was an unhappy sensation in her chest at the sight of it, something like disappointment but _more_ , and she didn’t have the right words to describe it. All she knew was that it upset her more than she wanted to admit, seeing his door closed to her. 

Master Xo was already on the bridge by the time she made her way there, sitting in the copilot’s position and priming the ship for space travel. There was a cheerful beep as she stepped through the door, and she nearly did a double-take when she found a T7 astromech unit connected to the navigational computer.

“Oh! Hello, I didn’t realise we had additional crew.” The droid was painted to match the bronze stylings preferred by the Sixth Line, and bore some obvious modifications that made it distinctly different from her own dear Tee Seven, but her heart still lurched for a moment. “I’m sorry for not greeting you earlier.”

Xolani glanced back over her shoulder, smiling at the interaction. “This is Parrot,” she said warmly, “otherwise known as T7-28.”

The astromech burbled happily at her, and Ona’la smiled in response. “Parrot is an odd choice of name for a droid,” she said. “I take it there’s a story behind it?”

As if on queue, Parrot immediately chirped a very clear and very loud “ _Twenty-eight! Twenty-eight!_ ” which, to her surprise, sounded remarkably bird-like. At the shocked look on Ona’la’s face, Xolani laughed. “Parrot has been used for numerous infiltration and information gathering missions over the years, and their recording software is able to detect the most minute changes in the wavelength of a signal. A few years ago, Parrot got separated from the rest of the team for about a week while we were on Kowak, lost in the jungles. When we found them again, they’d spent the better part of the week trailing after a colony of parrots in the canopy, trying to mimic their greeting call.”

“ _Twenty-eight! Twenty-eight!_ ”

“Which, as you can guess, actually does sound a little bit like someone saying ‘ _twenty-eight_ ’, if one is inclined to use one’s imagination,” Xolani said wryly. “The humidity and the constant tropical rainfall had shorted out some of their circuits, nothing that couldn’t be easily repaired, but their enthusiastic, ah, _bird calls_ we’ll call them, stuck quite firmly. Hence the name.” 

How could she not find that delightful? Laughing, she turned back to the astromech and bowed in their direction. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Parrot,” she said. “I take it you’re to be my navigational officer?”

Parrot chirped in the affirmative, and turned back to the console they were connected to, chattering quietly to themself. 

With Xolani in the copilot’s chair, there was nothing else for her to do but accept the inevitable and take the captain’s seat in front of the galactic map, trying not to feel like she was intruding in a space that did not belong to her. “Alright then,” she said, hoping her jittery nerves settled soon, “let’s get this journey underway.”

She flicked on the launch warning lights, to alert any crew still on the hangar bay floor to move away from the ship, and clicked on the intercom. “Coruscant Air Traffic Control, this is Jedi Master Ona’la of the starship _Defiance_ , requesting permission to launch from bay nineteen of the Senate District Commercial Spaceport, clearance code one-nern-nine-nine-trill.”

“Starship _Defiance_ , you are clear to launch through grid sector seven-four, please maintain cruising speed while within atmospheric limits.”

“Copy that, Air Traffic Control, thank you.” Beneath her hands, the ship began to hum with life, and there was only the briefest moment of fluttering in her stomach when the struts lifted off of the ground. The portal of the hangar bay grew larger in the viewport as the ship glided closer, and then they were through it and easing into the skylanes designated for interstellar launches. The beacons marking the lane flashed brightly as they passed them, the busy Coruscant traffic streaming far below them; Galactic City stretched out before them as they climbed, the glittering metallic cityscape stretching towards the horizon. 

As they ascended, the glow of the daylight slowly faded, the pale, washed out sky slowly giving way to an inky deep purple that encroached on the horizon the higher they climbed. Then the stars began to wink into existence above them, the glow from the planet below receding until it was nothing more than a faint shimmer against the roof of the cabin, angling in through the viewport. 

Just around the curve of the planet, orbiting over the next hemisphere at a height of four hundred kilometres from the surface, the great spaceport she’d docked at weeks ago hung heavily against the black. The _Illustrious_ was still docked, the aurebesh painted in stark black letters several times larger than she was tall, and for a moment she had a pang of longing for the familiarity of serving alongside the crew on something as simple as a rescue mission, or on escort duty for a diplomatic envoy. 

The comm crackled again, and Grand Master Shan appeared over the console, her hands clasped comfortably before her. “Master Ona’la,” she said, nodding by way of greeting. “Master Xo.”

“Master Shan,” Ona’la said, “is something amiss?”

Satele shook her head. “Nothing at all,” she said. “I just wanted to catch you briefly before you left the system and dropped out of contact. If you have a moment?” 

Ona’la made a gesture for her to continue, and Xolani discreetly busied herself to the side, to give them the pretence of privacy. 

“I realise the past few weeks have been rather stressful for all of us, but I wanted to thank you for the trust you placed in the legal processes of the Republic- and for the trust you placed in me.” Satele’s expression was solemn. “I will not pretend I am entirely comfortable with whatever it is that drives you to defend the prince, but even when you were disruptive, you allowed due process to take place.”

“It was simply the right thing to do, Master Shan,” Ona’la said, a bit confused by Satele’s choice of conversation at a time such as this. “I was hardly going to kidnap him and abscond from my duties altogether.”

“I have known many Jedi in my time who would have done precisely that, my dear, so your commitment to the Order and to the greater good of the Republic in a time of such dissent is greatly appreciated.” She visibly hesitated for a moment, an uncommon gesture for Satele. “ _I_ greatly appreciate it, and everything you do for the Order. I did not want you to leave without knowing that I am grateful for your support, and that I consider you a dear friend.”

Something uneasy settled in her stomach, but she managed a smile from somewhere. “Satele, you sound almost as if you expect not to see me again.” 

Satele waved a hand as if to dismiss the idea, but her expression was still troubled. “Just an old lady’s doubts, nothing to put any weight to.” She returned the smile, but it seemed about as genuine as her own. “I have every faith in you, Ona’la. May the Force go with you.” 

“May the Force go with you, Satele,” Ona’la said, staring up at the space where her face had been long after the hologram had vanished, the signal disconnected. 

An inquiring beep pulled her out of her thoughts, and she glanced back to where Parrot was poised waiting by the navigational terminal. “My apologies, I don’t actually have our destination yet,” she said. “Give me a moment, and I’ll have it for you.”

Turning back to the communication console, she keyed in the channel codes that Lord Dara had provided to her after their conversation yesterday. After a moment she heard the click of a line connecting, as promised, and she entered the second half of the encryption, holding her breath as she waited for the signal to go through. 

And hoping she’d remembered the sequence correctly, of course. 

Her fears were allayed when the holographic image flickered to life, this time displaying a far less welcoming individual. 

“Battlemaster,” Lord Dara said curtly. 

After a moment, Ona’la realised it was supposed to be a greeting, and bowed her head in response. “Lord Wrath,” she said. “We are ready for your instructions.”

“I am submitting the coordinates now.” She pressed a button off screen, and behind them Parrot chirped delightedly, acknowledging the incoming information. “The trip will require three jumps, to avoid obstacles off of the major hyperlanes. 

Ona’la pulled up the coordinates on her own console, watching as the star charts resolved themselves in front of her. “That is...” She glanced back at the holographic display of the Wrath. “A very empty patch of space,” she finished, trying not to sound dubious.

“Indeed,” Lord Dara said, utterly unmoved by her suspicions. “I would not be so foolish as to blithely hand out my location over a Republic monitored frequency, even if I have not taken great pains to obscure myself. At the location I have provided for you, there will be an escort waiting to guide you the rest of the way.”

“You must realise how this looks from my perspective.”

“Of course. Just as I know that you have already spoken to the Jedi High Council about your intention to meet with me- I am being as transparent as I am able without putting the lives of those dependent on me at risk.” Her gaze, if possible, turned colder. “I am well aware that if anything were to befall you, I would have the entirety of the Jedi Order to contend with, and even I am not that skilled.”

“Your modesty is commendable, Lord Wrath.” 

“I am merely speaking fact, Battlemaster. It is not modesty in the slightest.”

“I was making a joke.” 

Lord Dara paused for the slightest moment, as if considering her words. “I see,” she said after a few uncomfortable heartbeats. “You have Prince Thexan with you?”

Ona’la nodded, perturbed by the fact that she felt certain that she’d just hurt the Wrath’s feelings in some bizarre manner, and unable to say exactly why that upset her. “Of course.”

“Then I will see you in several days,” she said, and disconnected just as abruptly as she’d begun the conversation. 

In the copilot’s chair, Master Xo made a noise of vague disgust. “What a charming woman,” she said under her breath. 

“She’s actually not so bad in person,” Ona’la said, before shrugging and trying to ignore the gnawing need inside of her to leap to the other woman’s defense. “Well, for a sith, I mean.” 

Behind her, Parrot announced that the calculations for their jump were done, the first leg of the journey taking them towards the borderlands between Republic and Imperial space; it was a trip of only a few hours, by far the shortest of their hyperspace jumps. She waved a hand for them to continue, and in the viewport in front of them the stars began to reach towards them like creeping fingers and then-

And then they were away.

____

He was used to space travel- he’d spent the last year or so of his life on various battlecruisers and troop carriers, after all, journeying from one battlefield to the next. He was quite accustomed to the cramped living quarters, the less than exquisite meal options, the recycled air that never quite felt the same on his skin as fresh air, no matter how good the filters were in the life support systems. 

He wasn’t, however, used to waking up and finding his brother seated on the edge of the bed, watching him intently. 

Blinking in confusion and rubbing at his eyes, he struggled into a sitting position. “Arcann?” he asked, his voice hoarse with sleep. “What’s wrong?” 

Arcann’s mouth was a thin line against his jaw, his skin almost unhealthily pale. The intense look in his eyes was not unfamiliar, but it wasn’t exactly pleasant either. “I had a bad dream,” he said softly, and when he turned his head, the shadows made it look like he had horrific scarring over the left side of his face, the flesh burned and ruined. Then he moved, and it was gone. 

“You can- alright,” Thexan said, groggily trying to kickstart his brain into some semblance of functioning. “Do you, um, want to talk about it? Do you want to stay here tonight?” 

“You left me,” Arcann said, as if Thexan hadn’t spoken at all. “You left me and I _begged_ you not to go, but you left.”

Startled by the vehemence in his voice, Thexan said “No, wait, what? Arcann, you know I wouldn’t-” He put his hand out to cover his where it rested on the bed sheets, recoiling in horror when he touched only cold metal. The cybernetic arm came up, the fingers like claws as they slammed into his chest and pressed him flat against the bed again, knocking the air right out of his lungs. 

Golden eyes flashed before him, in a face he didn’t recognise. “If you truly cared, you would have stayed dead,” he hissed, his voice distorted by a modulator that protected his destroyed jaw from view. “You _left_ me.” 

“No, Arcann, I-”

The metal fingers dug into his ruined stomach, the flesh still hot and burning from the lightsaber wound. “You would have stayed dead,” he heard Arcann snarl, and from somewhere beyond the pain he heard the sound of his father laughing as he died.

Thexan lurched upright, his heart racing wildly and his stomach heaving as he all but fell out of the small bed, gasping for air as he tried to fight his way clear of the nightmare. Shivering, he pressed his head against the wall of the ship, the metal cool to the touch and blessedly refreshing against his fevered skin. 

Well, it wasn’t the worst nightmare he’d had since Ona’la had rescued him, but it certainly ranked as one of the top five. 

After a few minutes, his pulse had settled enough that it no longer felt like his heart was trying to burst out of his chest, and the burning ache in his scar had eased off to a dull heat that made him wonder if there was a lingering infection under the skin. He ran a hand over it, the callouses on his fingers catching ever so slightly on the ridged tissue- it was whole, even if it was uneven. It had not been torn open by vindictive robotic fingers. 

He was whole; or, at least, physically whole. 

He told himself that counted for something. 

Climbing groggily to his feet, he didn’t bother to pull on a shirt before he stumbled out of his room and out into the rotunda of the upper deck, grateful at least to see the lights dimmed for some kind of night cycle. He’d spent the entirety of the day locked away in his cabin, ignoring Ona’la’s polite queries through the door when she’d asked him if he was hungry or in need of company or anything, ignoring the way he could feel the little flicker of disappointment coming from her each time he refused to answer. 

She needed to just accept that he was a disappointment, instead of continuing to try and invest her time and energy in him. Instead of trying to be his _friend_ , Izax forfend.

It was better if she just accepted that and moved on. 

The steward droid made to follow him when he appeared on the main deck, and he hushed the damn thing hurriedly, glancing in the direction of Ona’la’s quarters and hoping it hadn’t woken her. The ship was quiet- or, well, as quiet as a ship travelling through hyperspace was capable of being- and the last thing he wanted was for her to come prodding at his psyche in the aftermath of his nightmare.

He knew where to find the galley, and was relieved to see it unattended, confirming his hopes that the two Jedi women were fast asleep in their quarters. 

The galley was relatively small, so it only took a moment or two to find a mug in the storage compartments, and only a moment more to draw himself a large drink of water from the filtration unit. He stood over the sink, staring at the wall as he sipped at the water, trying to ignore the vaguely chemical taste from the shipboard filters. 

He didn’t need to turn around to sense her in the doorway behind him. 

“Do you have nightmares often?”

He gritted his teeth and stared down at the cup of water in his hand. “It’s no concern of yours,” he said, his voice still rough from sleep. 

“I beg to differ- as your guardian and your friend-”

“ _We are not friends_ ,” he said sharply, ignoring the rapid flutter of his pulse.

“- your mental and emotional health is of utmost concern to me,” she finished calmly. “Especially when either begins to impact your physical health, and I’d wager that you’ve not ever had the opportunity to attend to your mental health before.”

He still had his back to her, and he couldn’t bring himself to turn around; she was so infuriatingly perplexing, with her incessant kindness and concern. She should _hate_ him, like everyone else in the galaxy did, like he did- the fact that she didn’t...

It _frightened_ him. 

“Jedi don’t _wager_ ,” he said, because it was the only thing he could think to say. 

The soft exhalation could have been considered a chuckle of laughter, but he didn’t really want to consider it too closely. He didn’t like to think about the unguarded joy she showed when she laughed, the way she lit up from within. “A lot of people seem to think that my defense of you is some kind of mad wager on my part,” she said, amusement in her voice. He could hear her moving closer, and his hand tightened on the cup. “So I suppose it depends on who you ask.”

He wasn’t fool enough to fall for the obvious question. “What do you want?” he asked instead.

“I want you to answer my question- do you have nightmares often?”

“I did answer. It’s no concern of yours.”

He felt her behind him, not quite close enough to touch; his skin prickled with awareness of her proximity, and his chest felt tight, as if it was suddenly hard to breathe. “I have nightmares,” she said simply, the admission so surprising that he nearly jerked backwards into her. “They come and go, but they’re never gone entirely. There were... there _are_ too many things I’ve seen and done, too many things I’ve survived, for me to be free entirely.” 

There was a weight to her words, allusions to the horrors she had endured; he wanted to know, he wanted to hear it in her own words, beyond the coldly clinical assessment of her that he’d read in the files of his father’s intelligence agency. But he didn’t _want_ to know either, he didn’t want to empathize with her; he didn’t want to see the light and the brightness in her, undimmed by torture and violence and death. 

She was dangerous enough already.

“You have my sympathies,” he said gruffly, because it wasn’t entirely untrue.

She sighed softly, and it might have held a trace of impatience. “Thexan,” she said, her voice just as quiet and gentle as always, with that hint of steel threaded throughout, “it is not a weakness to ask for help. If anything, it will only make you stronger, to ensure you are in the peak of health.”

It was too much. “Your persistent interference is not appreciated, _Jedi_ ,” he snarled, but he could feel himself shaking. She was too close, too intense, her presence smothering him in a way that made him want to panic and lash out and made him want to turn and collapse against her, hiding his face against her skin until the galaxy ceased to exist around them and he didn’t have to _think_ anymore. 

“ _Thexan_.”

He could not say later whether it was the sharp sense of command in her tone, the way she spoke his name with complete confidence, or whether it was the touch of her hand on his bare arm as she grasped him as if intending to turn him to face her. Both were extraordinary intimacies, the boldness with which she spoke his name ( _this woman who called him her friend_ ) and the terrifying spark of awareness that surged through him as her fingers pressed into his shoulder to turn him. 

He panicked. He was not... people did not simply _touch_ him, not like this. He was a prince and a tyrant, _a weapon_ \- out of fear of him or fear of his father’s reprisals, people did not touch him. 

But she did. She had and she did and no matter how often he pointed out that she shouldn’t keep seeking him out like this, she did.

She touched him like he was human. 

He felt it like a brand, as hot and horrifying as the heat of the lightsaber when it had sliced through his gut, _as sharp and clawing as Arcann’s hand in his stomach_. He felt the shudder roll down his spine, _the prickles of discomfort at the base of his spine_ ; it was heat and adrenalin and panic and so much more. _It was desire and lust and longing._

With a noise of alarm that was humiliatingly more likely to be called a yelp than a snarl, he tried to twist away from her, pulling his arm out of her reach; but in his panic, in his momentary jerking spasm of alarm, his hand closed violently around the cup in his hand, water spraying everywhere as it shattered in his grip. 

He didn’t register the pain immediately, because he was still too preoccupied with her closeness; his heart was ricocheting around in his chest, first in his throat and then in his stomach, and when her hand closed around his bicep, his first instinct was to lash out. 

His other hand came up instantly, out of panic- and she _caught it_. Her fingers dug in tight around his wrist, faster and stronger and far more intuitive than he’d been expecting of her, and he felt the ripple in the Force as she skimmed the surface of her powers, just enough to strengthen her connection should the moment turn violent. He’d underestimated her, _again_ \- granted, the only time they’d faced one another on a battlefield, she’d been exhausted and near to death, but this strength?

She’d trapped him firmly against the galley sink, his wrist held so tight in her hand that his bones ached; he got the impression that she’d barely exerted even a fraction of her strength, that she’d expected his tantrum and readied herself for it. He leaned backwards as far as the small space would allow him, the edge of the sink digging into his lower back almost painfully. She had a look like durasteel in her eyes, the crackling potential of power whispering over her skin and in that moment he could see the Woman Who Defied Vitiate. 

And then it was gone, his heart hammering painfully in his chest until he felt light-headed, his breathing shallow as the pain began to flare through his palm, and his body painfully aware of all the places she was touching him. She still had his wrist in one hand, and the other was pressed firmly against the centre of his chest, as if to hold him in place; she had one leg between his, evidently to stop him from sliding away, but all it did was press her body intimately against his, in a way none had ever dared to before.

She was so soft, despite it all, and she’d clearly come straight from bed- gone were the immaculately pressed robes in unassuming colours, bland and mild and meek, and the bolder streaks of purple over her eyes and lips were gone as well. She looked as she had in the apartment on Coruscant, less like a warrior spoken of as a legend and more like a mortal woman, and her loose linen tunic was baggy on her; he refused to look down to see if she was wearing sleeping pants, or if she was bare-legged. 

The thought of her in nothing more than a sleeping shirt, her muscular legs toned and smooth and blue and just _there_ for him to look at, that was more than he could process at this moment in time. 

She didn’t speak immediately, but after a moment the harder edges vanished from her gaze, not quite softening but certainly not imbued with the threat of challenge; if anything, she just looked resignedly exasperated. The hand pressed to the centre of his chest eased slightly, the touch no longer firm but gentle where her palm rested against his bare skin. “Breathe, Thexan,” she said, relaxing her grip on his wrist. “In through your nose and out through your mouth, come on. You can do it, breathe with me.”

He was so terrifyingly bewildered by her kindness. 

The panic had him by the throat, each inhalation more of a choked hiccup than anything else, but she was relentless. “Relax,” she said, her gaze still locked onto his; he felt her fingers slide down his arm to entwine with his, and she squeezed his uninjured hand gently. “You’re safe, nothing is going to hurt you, I promise. Just breathe slowly.”

His head spun, dizzy from the lack of oxygen, and Ona’la seemed to gauge the moment just before his legs gave out beneath him, because she was suddenly no longer pinning him to the sink but instead sliding sinuously to hook his hale arm over her shoulders. He slumped against her and she took his weight without even staggering; the galley was tiny, but she still managed to maneuver him with ease into the closest seat. 

She knelt before him, one hand lifting to cup his cheek while the other carefully took hold of his injured hand. “Just breathe for me, Thexan. You’re having a panic attack, that’s all. You’re perfectly safe, and you’re going to be alright. I promise.”

He couldn’t stop shaking, his throat burning and his chest aching- but he leaned into her hand, the touch keeping him bizarrely grounded in the moment. _Safe_. That was still a laughable concept. 

But he watched her lips and breathed in when she told him to, and after a time it didn’t feel so much like he was splitting open. At some point, when she judged him to be calm enough, her hand slipped away from his face, and she turned instead to the glass in his palm.

They were silent, the quiet noises of the ship humming around them; his breathing was still ragged, a harsh wheezing edge to each inhale, but she did not comment on it. 

“You’re afraid of me,” she said instead, not looking up from where she concentrated on the slashed skin of his palm. She had picked out the larger pieces of glass, and was now working to hunt out all the shards and splinters that sought to elude her. 

He swallowed, his lip trembling despite his best efforts. “I would be a fool not to be,” he said, his voice raw. 

He thought he saw her flinch, just ever so slightly, but it could very well have been his imagination. “You have nothing to fear from me,” she said quietly, and her words rang with sincerity. “You are safe here, Thexan. No harm will come to you under my care.”

“I am a _prisoner_ ,” he said. “Your kindness does not belay that.” 

She paused, her eyes distant for a moment; she still had not looked up at him, as if sensing that the moment was too intimate for eye contact. “You have free rein of the ship, Thexan. I’ve posted no guards, nor made any attempt to bind you while we were on Coruscant. The choice to remain sequestered in your quarters has been your own.”

“I would no more be welcome amongst your peers than an outbreak of flesh-eating bacteria, and you know that-”

“I _don’t_ , actually,” she said sharply, and she finally looked at him. “You have no faith in yourself, and so you have no faith that others will either. You have already decided that you are irredeemable, and so you make the choice for the rest of us. Is it paranoia that keeps you to your room, or is it pride, unable to accept that you’ve fallen from your lofty heights?”

The words stung, partly because she had never taken such a tone with him, and partly because she was _right_. “If I am no prisoner, I would be free to walk off of this ship and return home to Zakuul,” he said, the words wobbling treacherously as they left his mouth. He swallowed, tried to steel himself, and her gaze flicked to his mouth for a moment when he licked his lips to continue. “I was under the impression that no such option was available to me.”

Ona’la waited for a beat, and then sighed, rising to her feet; she went back to the counter and tossed the broken shards into the garbage unit, running the water filter a moment later before turning back to him with a wet cloth in her hands. “You are free to return to Zakuul whenever you so wish, Thexan,” she said quietly, kneeling before him again and taking his bloodied hand in hers. She was gentle as she cleaned the wound on his palm, her fingers careful not to draw more blood from the broken skin. “That was what I argued for when I stood in your defence on Coruscant.”

“If I do so, you will die,” he said.

Her eyes closed for a moment, a shadow of grief passing through them. “Yes,” she said.

“They will kill you, or imprison you in my place.”

“Yes.”

“Then I am not free- I may be many things, but I have my honour, and I will not condemn another to die in my place.” _It was why I was so ready to die for Arcann._ “If my freedom comes at the cost of your life, I will not take it.” 

Her ministrations slowed to a halt, but she did not let go of his hand; after a moment, she looked up at him, and from where he’d hunched over from the pain and the panic attack, her face was remarkably close to his. Close enough that he could feel the warmth on his cheek when she exhaled, close enough that he could see the different flecks of colour in her eyes. Close enough to see the faded detail of her eyebrow tattoos, and the way her skin was mottled with deeper shades of blue on her lekku where it draped over her shoulder. 

There was something else in her eyes, something peculiarly vulnerable, as if she were waiting for the moment when he snatched the words back and proved her foolish for the trust she kept insisting on placing in him. 

He might have done it once. He might have thrown it all back in her face, and gladly; he might have taken advantage of her kindness and her generosity of spirit, her incessant desire to be good and to do good and to enable good in all those she met. 

He might...

... not want to give her reason to lose her trust in him. 

“Ona’la,” he began, not quite sure what he wanted to say, but completely certain that he wanted to say it, “you have-”

There was an abrupt rumbling noise, enough to make the ship around them start rattling, and Ona’la was on her feet in an instant. “What is-”

“There’s something in the path of our hyperspace route,” he said, gritting his teeth even as he felt the violent shudder pass through the ship as it tried to bleed off enough speed to stop in time. The gee forces were _appalling_ ; he could swear he could feel himself stretching, as they broke out of lightspeed badly. “Did you not check the navigation systems before we launched?”

She’d somehow made it to the door, though the effort looked to be a strain. “Surprisingly, we did,” she snarled, bracing herself in the doorframe. “The only thing that could possibly have moved to block our path so quickly is something artificial, which means this is a trap.”

The ship lurched to an abrupt halt, and half of the storage hutches in the galley fell open, the contents spilling onto the floor. Climbing to his feet from the table, Thexan tossed the bloodied washcloth into the sink, moving to follow Ona’la. “Who could have possibly set a trap for us?” he asked, following her up the stairs towards the bridge. 

“The person who gave us the charts, I presume- Lord Dara herself.”

He felt it, like a moment of perfect, crystalline clarity, he _felt_ it; he froze, blinking, as he tried to process it. Ona’la kept talking, still walking towards the bridge and unaware that he had stopped behind her. 

He could feel it, the ominous crushing threat, the looming spectre that was drawing closer and was _outside the ship_ -

“ _Ona’la!_ ”

There wasn’t time to think- he reached towards her with the Force and snatched at her, sending her hurtling back through the air to crash against his chest, his arms going up around her in an instant as he spun them both away from the wall, all but curling around her to keep her out of harm's way.

Just in time for something to come piercing through into the deck where Ona’la had been standing a mere heartbeat earlier, a giant metal spike that opened up like an unholy flower once it was firmly lodged in the hull. 

“It’s not Lord Dara,” he said, his voice shaking despite himself.

The boarding pod- for that was what it was, he recognised it now- unfurled with a violent screech of metal, and a half dozen Skytroopers rolled out onto the deck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Australian Ringneck parrot was entirely the inspiration for the escapades of Xolani's droid- where I grew up, the birds were literally just called "twenty-eights" because of the sound they made. 
> 
> Also I've had the galley scene written since October of last year, I'm going to throw myself a little party for finally getting to put it in the fic (it was originally going to be like, chapter four? Oops)


	23. Chapter 23

Theron couldn’t say he’d ever had cause to think about it, but as he crossed the well manicured public park in front of the three tiered apartment complex, he had to say it was absolutely the definition of ‘ _upper middle-class_ ’. The lawns were carefully trimmed, the fountains bubbling quietly in the background while the perimetre was cheerfully illuminated with lights to discourage less savoury elements of society from lingering nearby and disrupting the peace for the tenants. 

He was fairly certain that he counted as ‘ _less savoury element_ ’ right now, given the currently dubious nature of his employment, and his reason for being in the complex in the first place.

At least he was going through the front door. Legally and everything, no fake ID to fool the security scanner or anything.

The lobby of the third tower was brightly lit and tastefully adorned with plush carpets and crystalline light fixtures, as well as two very suspicious security droids who watched him cross the foyer towards the turbolifts, their gaze burning into his back so fiercely as he waited for the doors to open that he humoured himself by imagining that they were fitted with laser optics, and they were actually burning a hole between his shoulder blades.

Okay, so he had a weird sense of humour. 

Honestly, it was surprising they let him through without running a secondary security check, but he supposed this sort of _upper middle-class_ dwelling wasn’t the sort of place people went out of their way to run complex scams in. On? No, definitely in... unless it was supposed to be upon, but why was he getting worked up about grammar at a time like this? 

The lift pinged softly and finally opened before him, and he was quite proud of the fact that he kept himself relaxed and casual as he stepped inside and waved cheerfully to the security droids, still watching him obsessively. The moment the doors closed, blocking him from their view, he let out a heaving sigh of relief and flopped back against the elegant wooden panels of the wall. There was a bar at waist height for those uncomfortable with enclosed spaces to hold onto, and he rested his hip against it as he lounged against the wall, crossing one foot over the other at the ankle as he watched the numbers on the display climb as the lift climbed. 

The pleasant ping as it reached the twenty-ninth floor had him straightening again for the sake of the security cameras, and then he sauntered casually out into the hallway as if he had every reason to be there. Which, honestly, he did. Sort of. Mostly. Okay, by _some_ people’s standards he definitely didn’t but those people weren’t a concern for him. 

Unless they caught him in what probably constituted an act of treason, then they’d be a concern for him. 

Honestly, it was fine. 

There was an apartment door towards the corner of the tower, the second to last door in the corridor, and there was nothing that particularly marked it as anything special. There was an elegant bronzium name plate beside the speaker, with ‘ _E. Hervoz and A. Jorgan_ ’ inscribed into the surface in a graceful calligraphic hand. 

He stopped in front of this door and leaned heavily on the door chime, pressing it in an annoyingly juvenile pattern to make a bad song out of the chimes. Maybe it was just the mood he was in, but it amused him to do it.

He didn’t hear anyone approaching on the other side of the door, so it took him by surprise when it slid open abruptly, turning with a smile- to find himself staring down the barrel of a high-powered military grade rifle. 

Theron raised an eyebrow. “That a gun, Jorgan, or are you just happy to see me?” 

The owner of the gun didn’t lower it. “When have I ever been happy to see you, Shan?” he asked flatly, bright blue feline eyes narrowed in suspicion as they watched him. The Cathar soldier was only wearing a baggy pair of what looked like pyjama pants, and for some reason seeming him mostly naked was almost more intimidating than seeing him prim and proper and fully armoured. 

Theron flashed him a winning smile. “Oh _you_ ,” he said, batting a hand towards him coyly before shoving his way past him and into the hallway. “Got any food? I haven't had dinner.”

Aric stood by the open door, his hand still on the entry pad as he stared in frustrated resignation at the spot where Theron _had_ been standing. “No, by all means, come in,” he said to the empty space at the door. “Please, Shan, I insist, our home is always open to you.”

Theron made his way into the apartment, leaving Aric to lock up and store his gun as he went searching for the superior officer in the house.

Ellaz was standing in the lounge room with her hands on her hips, no less intimidating for the fact that she was wearing a rather worn looking blouse and slacks instead of her usual sixty odd pounds of heavy battle armour. She wasn’t wearing shoes, and her socks were the most nauseatingly lurid shade of neon pink he’d ever seen in his life, and he’d spent enough time on Nar Shaddaa to consider himself immune to the horrors of neon. 

She raised her eyebrows at his appearance, but said nothing.

“Your husband’s talking to a wall again,” he said, jerking his thumb back down the hallway towards Aric. 

“No shit, cats do the weirdest things when they think you’re not looking- you ever see a cat just start staring at an empty corner? Creepiest thing I’ve ever seen, lemme tell you.”

“As always, darling, it delights me no end when you reduce my proud racial heritage down to making jokes about domesticated cats,” Aric said dryly as he joined them. 

Ellaz beamed at him as she slid her arm around his waist, leaning in heavily to him. “Mm, but I’ve got you nice and domesticated, now, haven’t I?” she teased, poking him in the centre of his chest with her free hand. 

Aric’s eyes were half-lidded with contentment, and there was very definitely a noise coming from him that sounded like the deep rumble of a purr. “That’s up for debate,” he said, his voice low.

Theron cleared his throat awkwardly, growing more convinced that he’d apparently interrupted something with his unexpected visit. “Nice place you’ve got here,” he said loudly, making a point of looking around. The apartment was pleasantly furnished with deep emerald greens and warm, honey-coloured wood furniture, the walls adorned with intricate wooden panels that depicted... something. Probably a story, if he squinted and tried to make out the individual figures in the chaos. There were more starship models on display than he would have expected, given that he wouldn’t have taken either of them to be collectors, and the floor tiles were covered by rather random placements of rugs, again in the deep emerald green. “I suppose I was expecting something a little more sparse, given how often you’re out in the field.”

“And soldiers don’t have a creative bone in our bodies, do we Shan?” Ellaz said with a rather sardonic smile. “We’re just grunts, good for the heavy work but not too good for the smarts you spy boys do, eh?”

“That’s not what I meant-” 

“Dear, if you’re going to tease the secret agent, I’m going to put the kettle on.”

“What if I promise to stop teasing the secret agent but still want tea?”

Aric nuzzled her on the forehead, his eyes alight with amusement. “I’m sure there’s some leeway in there for tea,” he said, extracting himself from her hug and moving off towards a room further into the apartment. 

Once he was out of the room, Theron cleared his throat again and said “You’ve uh. You’ve got a little something just...” He put his hand up to his neck to indicate the general area. “Sort of there?”

Ellaz matched the gesture, putting her hand up to her neck and rubbing her fingers over the mark in question. Her dark fingers came away sticky, and when she saw what it was she smirked. “Just a little blood,” she said airily, bending down to snatch a tissue up from the caf table in front of the couch. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Are you always so blasé about mysterious injuries?”

The look she gave him was absolutely not something he ever wanted to see from someone almost old enough to be his mother. “Who said anything about mysterious?” she asked with false innocence, holding the tissue to her skin. “You interrupted a quiet night in.”

Theron blinked, the words taking a moment to sink in, and then he nodded slowly. “I am absolutely going to pretend I never heard you say that,” he said, “because if not, I’m going to have far too many nightmares.”

“Cathar have teeth, Theron,” she said, her eyes sparkling mischievously. “Sometimes they even like to use them.”

“Alright, that’s far more than I ever wanted to know-”

“And you know what feels really good? When he-”

Theron slapped both hands up to his ears. “Can’t hear you, _mm hmm hmm_ ,” he said loudly, trying to hum over the top of her words; he needn’t have worried, because she cracked up laughing the moment he panicked, delight shining from her. 

“Dear, I thought we had words about you teasing handsome young SIS agents,” Aric said patiently as he appeared again in the doorway. 

“Were those words ‘ _only when we can enjoy it together as a couple_ ’?”

“Very funny. How do you take your drink, Shan?”

“Erm... what is it?”

“We got a couple of different teas and caf.”

“You got Rionese Roast?” 

“Just drink the brown water, it’s all made from plants,” Ellaz said, settling down onto the couch again and picking at the bowl of popcorn she’d apparently been snacking on prior to his interruption. There was another bowl on the other end of the couch, full of dark pieces of what looked like jerky, but he wasn’t game to find out. Carnivores, who even knew with them. 

Plus he didn’t think he wanted to push his luck with Jorgan by stealing his snacks as well as his private time with his wife.

He turned back to Aric. “I’ll have the brown plant water, apparently,” he said with exaggerated politeness. 

Aric gave him vague salute. “One mug of brown plant water coming up,” he said, retreating into the kitchen again.

“Alright, Shan, come on,” Ellaz said around a mouthful of popcorn. “This isn’t a social visit, so what’s going on?”

“What makes you say it’s not a social visit?” he asked innocently, flopping down into the plush chair opposite her. He went to put his feet up on the caf table, but the look she fixed him with when he tried it made a small part of him shrivel up in cowardly shame and keep his feet firmly fixed to the floor. “Maybe I’m just visiting my favourite Major just because I’m so fond of her.”

She cast him a withering look. “How did anyone ever think you’d make a good spy?” she asked, almost incredulously. “You’re such a terrible liar.”

He put his hands up in protest. “Woah, woah, calm down with the character assassination,” he said. “That sort of negativity is just utterly uncalled for and frankly I’m hurt.”

She rolled her eyes as she took another big handful of the popcorn. “Come on,” she said, “out with it.”

Theron sat forward, resting his arms on his knees. “Okay, so...” He trailed off as Aric came back into the room, nodding his thanks as he set the mug down on the table in front of him. “Okay. So, Havoc Squad- sort of not doing anything right now, yeah?”

“What, you mean like the way you’re not doing anything because you got fired, or like not doing anything because command are sitting on their fucking hands?”

“First of all that was extraordinarily mean, and second of all, I mean the second one.”

“We are doing sweet fuck all, even in the midst of an invasion,” Ellaz said, with quite a bit of venom in her voice. Theron knew it wasn’t directed at him, but it still made him wince. “Ever since Garza got transferred out of special ops-”

“Yeah, why is that, by the way?”

Ellaz held up a finger to indicate he should shush. “And ever since I got conveniently neutered with the role of ‘ _chief military advisor on unnamed taskforce number eighty four_ ’, our field ops have been cut down to absolute minimal. Weren’t allowed on the Ziost op, held in reserve during the first Zakuul invasion, it’s an absolute fucking-”

“What she means to say, Shan,” Aric said smoothly, apparently recognising a familiar rant coming on and cutting it off before it could bloom into a foul-mouthed tirade, “is that Havoc Squad has been on light duties for some time now, and there’s obviously political reasons behind it, but we’re not privy to those reasons.”

“They have me behind a fucking _desk_ ,” Ellaz said, throwing her hands up in frustration, scowling when Aric placed a calming hand on her knee. “If I’d wanted to be behind a desk, Aric, I would’ve fucking well stayed home and worked for CorSec. I could’ve married Cole Cantarus, had three or four fat babies-”

“Yes, dear, your constant reminders that you could have chosen your human ex are an unending source of delight for me, thank you for that.”

She poked him with her foot, the pink sock bright enough to make Theron want to wince. “I am being grumpy and sulking, you ass,” she said.

Aric looked unmoved. “Is that supposed to make it more pleasant for me?” he asked pointedly. “You’re grumpy, so I have to suffer?”

“That’s marriage for you,” Theron quipped, and then immediately regretted it when they both turned to look at him with the same expression on their faces, both of which seemed to promise a slow and painful death. “Okay, so apparently we’re not making jokes to lighten the mood, then.”

“Don’t be an ass,” Ellaz said, scowling.

“Depending on who you talk to, that’s sort of impossible for me,” he said, sitting forward again. “Look, I’m no more in the know about who’s been hamstringing Havoc than you are, but I have a... proposal for you, of sorts.”

Ellaz raised an eyebrow. “You gonna hire us, Shan? Turn us merc?”

“Well, no, not me precisely, but... my employers certainly have a proposition for you, if you’ll hear me out.”

Husband and wife turned to each other almost in sync, holding each other’s gaze for several long moments as if able to communicate telepathically; finally Aric nodded ever so slightly, and Ellaz sighed, turning back to him as she rang a hand through her dark hair. “Alright, Shan,” she said, “I’ll bite. What’s going on?”

Theron took a deep breath, suddenly nervous. This had been much easier with Ona’la. “I represent an organisation that is- _was_ , I should say, a defunct division of the SIS that could probably be considered-”

“Spit it out, Shan,” Aric growled. 

“It’s a cross-faction alliance founded to combat the growing threat posed by Vitiate,” he blurted out. “So, essentially, it’s like your taskforce, only... more.”

“You work with Imps,” Ellaz said, her dark eyes unreadable but her tone flat. 

He breathed out slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, we do. And yeah, I do. I work under the direction of the Republic leader, and I don’t take orders from Imps, but I do work with them when the need arises.”

“That sounds an awful lot like treason, Shan,” Ellaz said quietly.

Theron laughed awkwardly. “Funny, Ona’la said exactly the same thing,” he said, trying for a joke and falling flat. “Look, I can’t make that revelation any less shocking, but I can promise you that we’re just a group of people with the same goal who happen to have the misfortune of being on opposite sides of an insurmountable political divide. We all know the sith are imploding faster than they can patch themselves up, and despite what Saresh wants us all to believe, it’s not in our best interest for them to collapse and leave us alone against the might of Zakuul- and she’s stonewalling every sensible measure to protect our own people because she’s so determined to throw everything and everyone at Zakuul and the Imps at the same time, regardless of how much it leaves us exposed-”

“Alright, alright, Theron, I get it,” she said, holding a hand up to silence him. “I don’t need the full recruitment speech, just tell me what you’re doing here and what you want from me, and I’ll make up my mind.”

“ _Ellaz_ ,” Aric said, an admonishment and a warning in one.

“Sorry, _we’ll_ make up our mind.”

Theron glanced between them for a moment, trying to read the mood between them before giving up. He couldn’t even tell if half of their interactions were loving or antagonistic. “My director is a Jedi, and while he’s not on any of the Councils, he obviously has access to inside information from within the Order that we might otherwise struggle to access. As of late yesterday, we know that the Wrath made contact with Battlemaster Ona’la, expressing an interest in Prince Thexan. From what we understand, the Jedi Council gave Ona’la permission to covertly enter Imperial space in order to meet with the Wrath.”

“And she took the prince with her?”

“She did. She left this morning, before we were able to get a fix on her trajectory.” 

Aric and Ellaz shared another look, and she rubbed wearily at her eyes. “Why do I get the feeling that this story is going to end with you saying you want us to stalk your girlfriend?”

Even without a drink, Theron still choked for a moment. “She’s not- Ona’la isn’t my girlfriend!” he spluttered. “Stars above, why does everyone keep _saying_ that?”

“Disputing the girlfriend bit but not the stalking bit. Hmm.”

“I don’t- kriff, it’s not like that at all!” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “We have Imperial operatives who have worked with the Wrath before and would be able to give us a better understanding of her motives towards Thexan, but right now they’re out of reach, so as it stands, we have no idea what the Wrath wants with the prince or with Ona’la and we have good reason to believe she hasn’t asked them to visit for afternoon tea.”

Ellaz breathed out loudly through her nose. “You think the Battlemaster would be dumb enough to walk into a trap just because someone asked her nicely?”

“Yes? It’s Ona’la, you’ve met her, she walked blindly into the Emperor’s space station thinking that she could redeem him. She’s wonderful, but she’ll trust a Devaronian pickpocket with her purse and then apologise to him that there’s not enough in there for him to filch.” 

“He’s got a point,” Aric murmured, glancing at his wife. 

Ellaz seemed lost in deep thought, rubbing a hand over her jaw before making a noise of frustration. “Okay, Theron, say I buy you working for some super secret organisation under the nose of the SIS and stars only know who else, and let’s say I acknowledge your concern about the Battlemaster and what she might be facing- what then? I’m still bound by my duties to the Republic, and unlike you, if I get fired, I can’t just pick up and keep going as if nothing had happened. If I get fired, it’s going to be very big and very public, and I’m not gonna have access to nearly a fraction of my current resources.”

Theron clasped his hands together. “Does a Chief Military Advisor have jurisdiction to visit teams out in the field, as part of their work for the taskforce?”

She nodded slowly. 

“Okay then,” he said, hoping they wouldn’t notice his hands shaking; he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small device, a flat metal disc no larger across than a fingernail, and placed it carefully on the table.

For a moment, nobody spoke, and then Ellaz cleared her throat, sitting forward with an intent look on her face. “I take it this is some grand reveal I’m supposed to recognise,” she said, jerking her chin in the direction of the item. 

“This,” Theron said, gesturing to the disc, “is a tracking chip, identical to the one that Ona’la has on her headpiece.”

Aric let out a disbelieving snort, and Ellaz shot him a warning look. “Does she _know_ she’s been tagged?” she asked.

“She does,” he said quickly. “It’s all above board, she knows all about it.” He hesitated. “Well...”

“Out with it, Shan.”

“She doesn’t _know_ it’s a tracking device. I gave her a brooch and told her it was a tracking device- which it is, that was true- and I told her this one was a signal disruptor.”

“Is it?”

“Yes. Exotech can cram a whole bunch of marvellous functions into the tiniest gadgets, I swear. But the thing is- we think the signal is heading for Yavin 4.”

Ellaz was nodding slowly. “We still have a portion of the taskforce out there, cleaning up from that Revanite business.”

“Exactly! So for you to say you were making a trip out there on secret taskforce business or something, even while we’re under threat from Zakuul, no one would question it. Right?” 

Aric and Ellaz looked at each other for a long time, and Theron became even more suspicious that marriage bestowed some sort of freakishly unnatural ability to communicate telepathically with one’s spouse. 

Finally Ellaz groaned loudly. “Tell your boss to send me the mission details,” she said, “and I’ll-”

“I’ve got everything you’ll need right here,” Theron said brightly, nearly giddy with relief that she’d agreed. 

She shook her head. “Nuh uh, not from you, boyo,” she said warningly. “You’re a good kid, Theron, but I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you- I’ve just got your word on this grand conspiracy so far, and I wouldn’t put it past you to have concocted all of it just to get us in on your wild schemes. Have your boss contact me, I’ll talk to him.” 

“But, you’re onboard otherwise?”

“Once I’ve talked to your boss, then we’ll see about committing high treason together.”

____

He didn’t have time to think. 

Neither of them had their lightsabers with them- they were hardly even _dressed_ , let alone prepared for battle against some of the most indestructible war-droids in the galaxy. But if he didn’t act, they were going to die- _Ona’la_ was going to die-, and he found that he was rather ferociously opposed to that possibility. 

The platform was narrow, nowhere near wide enough for them to have been able to fight two abreast even if they were armed, and certainly not wide enough for the Skytroopers to rush them en masse. A Zakuulan Boarding Pod was equipped with fourteen Skytroopers, all of which would only activate upon successful contact with an enemy craft- so he just had to find a way to disable fourteen Skytroopers, without dislodging the pod and causing an explosive decompression of the corvette and killing them all, and without a weapon on hand. 

Honestly, he could have done it one handed. 

He let go of Ona’la as he moved forward, sending her as far down the gangway as he could without hurting her; the Skytroopers first programmed response was always a strafing fire, to neutralise as many opponents as possible across as large a space as possible, and he rolled under the laser fire and came up next to the railing around the ship access ramp. The pod had slammed into it closer to the bridge, severing it, so it was easy enough to rip a section of it free as he came to his feet, swinging it in a wide arc with the momentum of his roll. 

It was a crude weapon, but effective- the length of pole smashed off the head of the first Skytrooper, and the body fell awkwardly to the deck, sparks flying and shards of metal spraying towards the wall in a crunching shower of debris. 

One down. 

The remaining thirteen adjusted to the threat quickly, shoving each other to get a clear shot at him; he spun the pole between his fingers, deflecting each bolt as it came, managing to angle several of them back towards the droids. One even managed to spear through the chassis of one of the Skytroopers, its optics going dark as it slumped to the ground. Two down. 

He swept the pole around and went to lunge forward, intending to sweep the feet of the two closest ones out from under them; one of the remaining twelve got a lucky shot in, the bolt slamming into his shoulder and making him stifle a snarl of pain from between clenched teeth. He changed the angle of his attack to compensate, shutting off the pain as much as he was able to as he slid forward and into arm’s reach of the droids, spinning himself with the pole to give the strike more weight. This close, it was impossible for the two closest to move out of his way in time, and the pole went slamming through both of their chest plates and out of the other side, both of them collapsing as their internal systems shorted out. 

Four down, in the space of less than eight seconds. 

The deck was cluttered with the empty husks of the first four droids, making it hard for him to find his footing, and the remaining ten had rapidly assessed the situation and were moving to counter him in the way they did best. He already felt winded, the impact mark on his shoulder burning horrendously, and it honestly felt clunky and slow; he was out of shape, he could tell, and whether it was his injuries or his fitness in question, or whether he was being hampered by trying not to disturb the boarding pod or whether it was a combination of all of the above, it was immensely frustrating and more than a little humiliating. 

The Skytroopers at the front dropped to one knee, their guns raised in his direction, and the ones immediately behind them moved forward, so that he was faced with two rows of armaments instead of one. 

Fuck.

“Thexan!” The shout behind him came from Xolani. “Duck!”

He slid immediately to his knees, and a lightsaber with a shining bronze blade went spinning overhead, slicing straight through three of the droids closest to him and missing the fourth only out of sheer bad luck. It went soaring back to the hand of its master unerringly, and when Thexan glanced over his shoulder, he saw Xolani standing at the top of the stairs from the lower deck, her dark hair tumbling in twisting lengths over her shoulders as her eyes sparkled with cold fury. Ona’la was nowhere to be seen, and he could only hope she’d been smart enough to get out of the crossfire or in search of a weapon. Preferably both. 

Half of the droids were destroyed, and the other half were trying to clamber out of the pod, their path blocked by the bodies of their deceased brethren; he, however, was still perfectly within reach, and as three guns lifted in unison and aimed directly at him, he swore and rolled backwards into the ship access ramp, grunting in pain when he landed badly on his elbow. Lunging back to his feet, and knowing the ramp only gave him a few precious seconds of cover before one of them tried to follow after him, he took a running leap and managed to soar over the top of the airlock and vault over what remained of the railing, tumbling forward and into the cockpit. 

There was a terrified squeal and then something stabbed him in the thigh, accompanied by a brief electric shock. He let out a shocked snarl and rounded on his attacker, only to come face to face with a cowering astromech, waving its little appendages in a pitiful manner to ward him off.

“I’m on _your_ side!” he snarled, stalking past it and over to the main console. The droid babbled incoherently behind him, his grasp of binary not well suited for hysterical astromechs in the middle of a boarding attack. 

He’d only ever done this on simulators, and never on an actual ship; certainly he’d never done it in the midst of a pitched battle, where the lives of the women on board were dependent on him getting this right. 

A hundred warning lights were blaring at him as he leaned over the console, pulling up the defense schematics and immediately running a scan on the boarding pod. His fingers flew over the keys, locking on to the broadcast signal emitting from the boarding pod and trying to find the encryption protocol embedded within it. 

A blaster bolt went slamming into a section of the console a few inches from his hand and he lurched backwards in alarm, spinning to find a Skytrooper in the doorway behind him. He put his hand up, thinking to send the droid hurtling backwards to at least give him a few extra moments, when a streak of blue light went slicing through the chassis. A half second later and Ona’la was there, kicking the collapsing body into the stairwell and out from underfoot, blocking another laser bolt with her lightsaber and angling it safely away. 

“Thexan!” she shouted, glancing at him before looking back to the attacking Skytroopers. “What are you doing?” 

“Trying to make sure there aren’t more pods out there!” he shouted, turning back to the console and grunting in frustration when a third of the screen refused to illuminate; the Skytrooper had better aim than he’d been hoping. 

“There’s obviously a ship out there,” she yelled, ducking out of sight for a moment before returning to the doorway; it occurred to him with some shock that she was _protecting_ him, that she hadn’t questioned his motives in the slightest, and was giving him time to do whatever it was he had to do. She believed he was trying to save them. 

She hadn’t even hesitated to trust him.

“No, there isn’t,” he yelled back, trying to ignore the way such a revelation made him feel. “We call this a sleeper pod- Skytroopers don’t need life support, artificial gravity, anything. You dump the pod in a strategic location, and it activates when a vessel meeting certain requirements draws near.”

He could hear blaster bolts behind him, and the sizzling screech of the lightsabers of the two women. The encryption protocol was one he didn’t recognise, and he gritted his teeth in frustration; for it to be so dense, the only person who could have ordered it was his father. Which meant that his father had to have anticipated the need for sleeper pods to be seeded on damn near the far side of the galaxy, in the event that they were required to destroy his children.

Which meant he’d planted them long before his death on Zakuul.

“ _Thexan_.” He heard the voice as if from a long way off, and it came as a surprise when he felt a hand on his arm. “Thexan,” the voice came again, and he looked up to find Ona’la beside him, her hand on him and concern in her eyes. “Are you alright?”

His heart was thundering in his chest, and there was something in him that felt like rage and fear and misery all morphed together into something ugly and enormous at the knowledge that his father had planned for this eventuality. He swallowed it down, nodded with some difficulty. “I’m okay,” he said, his voice rasping hoarsely. 

“It’s okay, we’ve dealt with the droids,” she said, her hand still on his arm. She made a small noise, and her fingers came up to his shoulder. “You’re hurt-”

His hissed at the touch and recoiled, and she immediately held her hand up in apology. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry Thexan,” she said calmly. “I was just worried about you.”

“I’m fine,” he snapped, feeling light-headed now that the immediate threat had passed and his body had nothing to do with the adrenalin thrumming through him. “I’m just- I’m fine.”

Xolani appeared in the doorway behind them, her lightsaber hilt still held loosely in her hand given that she had no belt on her sleeping gown to attach it to. “Well then,” she said briskly, “that was certainly not what I was expecting when I went to bed. What are we going to do now?”

“We’re off most established travel routes,” Ona’la said, turning slightly away from Thexan and pulling up the galactic map on the main holoprojector; with a few clicks, she was able to zoom in on the section. “We’re sort of just in the edge of the Gordian Reach, but the way Lord Dara directed us, there’s no settlements within easy travelling distance. Especially not with a compromised hull that may or not collapse at any given moment, meaning we can’t risk a hyperspace jump.” 

Almost sullenly, Thexan settled himself back into the seat in front of the console he’d been working at before and began to plug away at the encryption, his pace a little less frantic now that their lives weren’t at immediate risk. 

“Can we call for assistance?” Xolani was saying.

“We’re well and truly within the bounds of sith space, it would take over a day for anyone to reach us, and it’s very likely any such rescue mission would be viewed as an incursion into imperial sovereign territory.”

“What about Lord Dara? Her escort can’t be far away, we were nearly at the second jump point, after all. They may be able to help us.” 

Thexan jumped in alarm when he felt cool fingers on him again, and looked up into Xolani’s scowling face. “Hold still boy,” she said firmly. “Unless you’d like me to leave you with that burn?”

Feeling suitably chastised, he settled back again, trying not to shiver at the rush of healing energy that flooded him as the jedi set to work on his injuries. 

“Thexan?” He glanced over at Ona’la, who was watching him with a distressed look on her face that made his stomach flutter. “Are you alright? What are you doing?”

He looked away. “Trying to break through the encryption around the pod’s central data files,” he said quietly. “I was going to try and shut it off entirely but, well...”

Xolani squeezed his shoulder briefly. “We appreciate the gesture,” she said, continuing her healing.

“Any information you can recover about the pod and how long it’s been here would be invaluable,” Ona’la said. “It may be a one-off occurrence, but we can’t take the chance that it won’t happen again. We need to know how to anticipate these sleeper pods and how to defend against them.”

Behind them, the astromech droid suddenly started screaming again, and Thexan scowled at the sound, the squeaks rattling around in his head. “What is it going on about?” he snapped, not bothering to look back at it.

“Parrot says there are several ships approaching,” Xolani said grimly, drawing herself up as they stared out the viewport. “Are you sure these sleeper pods do not have fleet support?”

“What? Yes! I commanded the Fleet for over a year, I think I’d know our own military procedures!”

In the empty space ahead of them, there was a white blur as something dropped out of hyperspace, and then they were staring directly into the cannons of a heavily armed battlecruiser, taxiing slowly to a halt before them. 

In the bridge, the three of them were silent, until Xolani murmured under her breath “That is an Imperial vessel.”

The astromech squealed again, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Ona’la nod grimly. “Put it up on the console,” she said, apparently an acknowledgement of whatever the droid had said to her. It chirped nervously and a moment later the galactic map vanished from the projector on the dash, replaced by the image of a middle aged human man in an immaculate Imperial uniform.

“This is Moff Valion Pyron of the Imperial dreadnaught _Doombringer_ ,” the figure said, utterly unperturbed by having rescued them from almost certain death. “I believe you were expecting us.”

Ona’la was still breathing heavily from the fight, and he saw her pupils widen slightly. “ _You’re_ our escort?” she asked, and he had the strongest urge to go up behind her and place his hand on her back, as a show of support. 

“Indeed- the Lord Wrath sent us to shadow you for the entirety of the journey, and to meet you at the prearranged location after being certain you’d not been followed.”

“She doesn’t trust me.”

The Moff waved a hand. “Far from it, my Lor- I mean, Battlemaster, I’m of the impression that the Lord Wrath thinks quite highly of you. We are not here out of any presumed deception on your part- she believed there would be another attempt on the life of your royal passenger, and we were to intervene if such an attempt took place.”

“She could have just _told_ us that,” Xolani snapped, not looking up from where she was treating the burn on Thexan’s shoulder. He was trying his best not to be belligerent and instead be grateful for her ministrations; it was a concept he was struggling with. 

“The Lord Wrath was far more interested in seeing what sort of forces Emperor Vitiate might have in place to intercept the prince,” Moff Pyron said. 

“She _did_ set us up,” Thexan hissed under his breath, fury at Lord Dara bubbling up in his veins. How dare she risk Ona’la’s life just to satisfy her curiosity, how dare-

“I suppose one might look at it in such a manner,” Moff Pyron said, sounding intensely bored with the conversation. “Now, if it’s not too much trouble, we’d like to bring your vessel into our hangar bay- will the tractor beam unsettle the boarding pod, in your estimation? Our initial scans seem to indicate your hull pressure to be within reasonable limits, but we’d rather not have your ship explode alongside ours.”

“How thoughtful of you, Moff,” Ona’la said, sounding like she was speaking from between gritted teeth. For her, that had to mean she was close to the end of her patience, because Thexan couldn’t recall a time she’d ever spoken like that, even when she’d lost her temper in his presence. She looked exhausted. 

She took a moment to pull up several internal diagnostics, and Thexan could see her hands were shaking slightly as she worked. “Hull integrity is currently at forty-three percent, approximately sixty-two thousand RU remaining,” she said after a moment. “The boarding pod has sealed the breach for the moment, but there are areas around the breach where the RU drops below one thousand.”

“Hmm,” the Moff said, considering. “We’ll have to risk it, we can’t leave you floating aimlessly until the degradation becomes irreversible. Would it be possible for you to evacuate to an escape pod while-”

“You can bring us in, Moff Pyron, but I’ll not abandon ship so easily,” Ona’la said, her voice low. “Have a care how casually you speak to me, and remember that I am your master’s equal.” 

The Moff paused. “Of course, Battlemaster,” he said after a moment, his tone far more polite. “With your permission, we will bring you aboard- taking every care with yourself and your vessel, of course.” 

“I appreciate that.” 

Ona’la disconnected the call, and she took a deep breath; she looked frayed, worn ragged along the edges.

“Can we trust them, Battlemaster?” Xolani asked bluntly.

She grimaced. “For the moment, we have no choice,” she said, climbing wearily to her feet. “Parrot, make sure the autopilot is engaged to assist with the tractor beam bringing us in. I suggest the rest of us find more appropriate apparel to greet Imperial officers in.”

They all hobbled off to their respective bedrooms; Thexan felt the jolt when the tractor beam locked on to the ship, and was grateful he was sitting on the edge of his bed at the time, pulling on his boots. He’d barely even looked at what he was dressing himself in, grateful at least that he wasn’t distracted enough that he was trying to pull a pair of trousers on over his head. 

He returned to the bridge to find Ona’la and Xolani already there, both of them wearing their formal battle robes- Xolani resplendent in plated bronze and deep brown robes, Ona’la with her vibrant purple makeup across her eyes and lips and her high collar hiding her scars from view. 

It was somewhat startling to realise she hadn’t been covering her scars around him, not like she had when they’d first begun to spend time together on the _Illustrious_. Was she growing comfortable around him, or did she just view him as so utterly non-threatening that his opinion of her disfigurement meant literally nothing to her?

They were in the shadow of the massive dreadnaught by the time he joined them, the hangar bay looming large in front of them as the tractor beam guided them slowly in. 

“Hull pressure holding steady at thirty-nine percent,” Ona’la said calmly, and it took him a moment to realise she was talking to the deck command of the dreadnaught. “RU sitting at sixty-one thousand three hundred.”

“Copy that, _Defiance_ ,” came the response. The roof of the hangar bay slowly slid over the top of them, and Thexan realised he was holding his breath. “Please keep all crew clear of the pod, prepare for decompression upon impact.”

“Acknowledged. Crew clear and ready.”

Xolani glanced over at her. “You seem distracted,” she said quietly, holding down the mute button so that the Imperials could not hear her.

Ona’la was frowning, and held down the corresponding button on her own console. “I sense... something. A presence, maybe. I don’t know.”

“Bad?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Is it a trap?”

She shook her head. “No, it’s not like that, it’s...” She made a frustrated noise. “I don’t know. We’ll just have to see.”

“Landing struts engaged,” the voice came through the comm again, and Ona’la turned her attention back to that. “Front left damaged, landing will be bumpy, be advised.”

“Acknowledged, dreadnaught. Crew standing by for landing.”

They were all three of them holding their breath as the corvette slowly settled down on the deck of the hangar bay; as warned, it sat evenly for maybe a heartbeat before it overbalanced and slowly tilted to the left, all of them grabbing at the nearby surfaces to keep themselves from stumbling. 

From behind them, there was an ear-popping bang, and they all cringed as the pressure abruptly changed and their ears ached in response. “I take it the pod has come loose,” Xolani said, one hand pressed to the side of her head with her eyes closed. 

“I’d say as much,” Ona’la said, sounding somewhat breathless. 

A moment later and the _Defiance_ was powering down, the systems slowly settling into idle; Thexan glanced out of the viewport and down onto the deck, taking in the lines of Imperial troopers standing at the ready in the hangar bay.

The last time he’d seen those uniforms, he’d been working to kill as many of them as possible. 

“Come on, then,” Ona’la said, rising to her feet. “Let’s see what Moff Pyron has to say about all this, and whether he can contact Lord Dara for us.”

She led them all down the ship access ramp- which was cluttered up with the destroyed Skytroopers- and tried to open the door. When it refused to open at her touch, she tried keying in the code manually, and then when that didn’t work she dug her fingers in around the seals and tried to pull it open. Thexan, after watching her struggle for a moment, stepped up behind her and reached over her, adding his strength to hers to slide the door open enough for them to climb out. 

It was a peculiarly intimate moment, and when the door suddenly jerked open several inches it sent her stumbling back against him; she laughed awkwardly, glancing over her shoulder at him, and if he didn’t know better he would have said that she was blushing. 

From outside the ship, someone called “Ho there, _Defiance!_ We have a mechanical jack, stand clear of the door and we’ll get it open for you.”

Thexan gave Ona’la enough space to get back, watching her carefully and trying his hardest to make it look like he wasn’t watching her carefully, and taking in the way she was very carefully trying not to look at him. After a half minute, the door was wedged wide enough for them to slither through, and the three of them clambered out onto the deck of the hangar bay with only minimal assistance from the Imperial troopers. 

Brushing himself off, Thexan watched the approaching Moff- recognisable from the holocall earlier- and glanced at Ona’la, trying to gauge her reaction. She was quite noticeably distracted, almost glancing over her shoulder as if she kept seeing something out of the corner of her eye before losing it again. 

The Moff saluted crisply when he drew to a stop before them, looking far more composed than they were- understandable, given the circumstances. “Welcome aboard the _Doombringer_ , Battlemaster,” he said, bowing briefly to her. He turned to Xolani. “Master Xo, Prince Thexan. I apologise that our meeting came sooner than anticipated, but hopefully you shall not find our facilities lacking until we rendezvous with Lord Dara.”

“I’m sorry, Moff, I don’t mean to interrupt,” Ona’la said, looking increasingly preoccupied, “but is it at all possible that you have a Force-user on board with you?”

Moff Pyron looked surprised. “Why, yes, Battlemaster,” he said. “In fact, I am lead to believe you are already acquainted with him.”

The vaguely panicked look in her eyes made the hair on the back of Thexan’s neck stand on end, and he felt agitated just from watching her distress. “And who might that be?” she asked.

“I’m surprised you haven’t guessed already,” came a rich and unsettling voice from behind them. Ona’la spun to face the speaker, the dismay in her expression making it abundantly clear that she did in fact recognise the owner of the voice; Thexan turned more slowly, trying hard not to clench his fists at his sides.

There was a man behind them, a sith pureblood, broad-shouldered and muscular in a way that almost seemed unnatural. He wore elaborate red armour, embellished with golden highlights, and there was something about it that seemed to mimic the stylings in Ona’la’s own robes. He wasn’t sure if it was intended as an homage or a mockery, but looking at the faintly amused gleam in the man’s red eyes made him suspect it was the latter. 

“Hello, Ona’la,” he said, with a familiarity that made Thexan’s hands clench into fists instantly, despite his good intentions. 

She managed to keep her chin up, but she was terrifyingly pale. “Hello, Scourge,” she said.


	24. Chapter 24

To say that she was unhappy to see Lord Scourge was somewhat of an understatement. 

Ona’la did her best to focus on Moff Pyron’s polite monologue as he led them deeper into the dreadnaught and away from the hangar bay, but it was so very hard; she was tired, and she ached so badly from the effects of their abrupt lurching halt dropping from lightspeed down to a dead stop, and the subsequent fight of course, and now she was on edge thanks to the reappearance of the one man she truly did not wish to see. 

She’d tried, she’d tried so very hard to be friends with Scourge- it was what she did, after all, seeking common ground and companionship with all of those she served with, and Scourge had been no different. She’d welcomed his advice to begin with, desperately thankful for his part in their escape from Vitiate’s impenetrable space station and fascinated by someone who could find themselves immersed so entirely in the Emperor’s vision and yet still find it in themselves to defy him. 

He had three centuries worth of wisdom to share, and his personal adaptations of Juyo form were extraordinary, giving her the opportunity to practice against an opponent who was more than a match for her. She’d accepted his peculiarly flat responses and uninterested demeanour as the result of his immortality, as he’d explained it to her, and had done her best never to take offence at his blunt and very abrupt nature. 

For a time, she’d almost been able to convince herself they shared some sort of camaraderie, that they truly did share a connection in their quest to see Vitiate removed from power. She’d ignored his rather callous remarks about her wasted potential amongst the Jedi, and learned very quickly not to engage with him on philosophical interpretations of the Force; he had one opinion, and one opinion alone, and he very pointedly mocked her for her determination to do good when she had the opportunity to be selfish or the chance to save time and money and yet opted to do otherwise. She made a point of not voicing such decisions in his presence, to cut down on conflict. 

That all changed, however, after her confrontation with Vitiate in the dark temple on Dromund Kaas. She remembered so clearly having Scourge’s voice in her head, the Sith guiding her through the twisting, labyrinthine tunnels of the temple from the safety of the dropship that was acting as their command centre. It was the first time she’d ever heard him animated, his agitation and nervousness at being so close to his goal after three hundred years of waiting palpable even through the headset she wore. Her first glimpse of the man beneath the fugue immortality had cloaked him in, and she hadn’t been sure at the time whether she was delighted to see him shaking off the Emperor’s influence, or frightened of the aggression he wielded with ease.

He’d snarled at her when she’d hesitated at the news of Sergeant Rusk’s struggle, which had become a tirade of furious outrage when she’d left the path he’d set her on in order to save Fideltin’s life. 

_I am not a killer_ , she’d snapped in response to his scolding, _and I will not sacrifice life when it is within my power to save it._

_You risk_ all _life with your hesitation_ , he’d said, even as she raced to the shield generators to rescue the sergeant. _If you think that Vitiate will be moved by your compassion, you are more of a fool than I had hoped._

It was the first sign, the first cracks in the facade of their awkward partnership, and she suspected he already knew of the doubts that were slowly consuming her from the inside out. Her dismay at being celebrated as a killer, trying to weigh up the frankly very justified murder of one tyrant against the trillions of deaths he would be responsible for if she let him live. Scourge knew, she was sure of it- he knew the fear in her, the doubt, and it only made him push her harder. 

She’d told Thexan that she’d never told anyone about not striking the killing blow against Vitiate in the temple, and for the most part that was true. 

She hadn’t told Scourge, but he knew anyway. And he _despised_ her for it. 

Xolani seemed to sense that she was not in a fit state to uphold their side of the conversation with the Moff, and had neatly stepped into the breach her silence had caused. “We’ll need to make arrangements to have my vessel repaired,” she was saying, walking alongside Pyron with her head held high and a cool demeanour that seemed almost challenging. “If you lack the resources within your fleet, I would appreciate if you could see to our immediate transfer to Republic sovereign space, to facilitate the repairs.”

“I assure you, Master Xo, we are fully equipped to deal with that sort of small scale engineering project. By the time we’ve reached Lord Dara, your ship will be fully functional again.” 

She could feel Scourge’s interest in her, uncomfortably pressing up against her as if he was physically standing too close to her, and it made her stomach roil. 

“You must understand my concerns at allowing the Imperial Engineering Corps to have unsupervised access to a modified Jedi vessel, Moff Pyron. It is one thing for the Empire to have schematics for the original model, and another entirely for you to have the opportunity to go over the inner workings of the computational software with a fine tooth comb.”

“I can promise you now, Master Xo, that as guests of Lord Dara, both you and your craft will not be subjected to such, _ah_ , scrutiny, shall we say. She has very explicitly expressed her standards for all interactions between Imperial and Republic individuals, and we are to conduct ourselves towards you in the spirit of fellowship.”

Xolani made a noise of surprise. “That is rather unexpected for the Wrath,” she said reluctantly.

“ _She_ is _weak_ ,” Scourge said, the words dripping with scorn. 

Ona’la scowled, opening her mouth to respond, but found someone else preempting her- and of all people, it was _Thexan_.

“ _She_ replaced _you_ , as I recall,” he said, his voice cold and cutting. “And for her to extend an offer of alliance to Ona’la is literally no different from what you yourself have done.”

She glanced back over her shoulder, utterly stunned at his defense of her, but he wasn’t looking at her; instead he had locked eyes with Scourge, the two of them staring daggers at one another as they brought up the rear of their little group. 

Scourge’s smile was unsettling. “I abandoned my post of my own accord, young prince- she was naught but the hastily acquired replacement-”

“She came far closer to destroying Vitiate than you ever did, and in the space of only a few years,” Thexan said bluntly. “You cling to prophecy and fate and wait for others to act on your behalf, all the better to minimise your personal risk.” 

“So the pup has teeth, does he? Fascinating.” 

“Scourge,” Ona’la said warningly, her emotions badly in flux as it was without the two men getting into some bizarre pissing match- which in itself was so bewildering, because for weeks now Thexan hadn’t shown any strong interest in doing anything more than looming threateningly when faced with aggression from another. 

She didn’t know what had changed for him to immediately metaphorically lunge for Scourge’s throat. 

“I find it interesting, my dear Battlemaster, how frequently you surround yourself with Vitiate’s castoffs, despite being fated to kill him. One would think you were trying to humanize him, to avoid dealing with him in an appropriate manner.” 

And there it was- the reason for his resentment of her thrown back in her face once again, an accusation and an insult and a plea all at once. She closed her eyes for a moment, willing herself not to snap at him. “Scourge, I’ve asked you not to refer to me as destined to kill Vitiate, a number of times now.”

“And I have asked you numerous times to express why it is that you feel the need to deny the purpose that the Force has set for you.”

Ona’la came to a halt and turned to face him, trying not to cringe at the almost smug look on his face. Thexan immediately slammed to a stop as well, his eyes narrowed as he glanced between the two of them, and behind her she could hear Xolani and then Moff Pyron slow to wait for them too. The Moff had very sensibly held his tongue since the argument had begun, clearly well used to the bickering that occurred between highly powered Force users. 

“I am sorry that you chose to gamble your entire life on the promise offered to you in a brief vision three hundred years ago,” Ona’la said, her voice low, “and I have apologised to you repeatedly for not living up to your expectations. But I am _not_ your chosen one, Scourge, and I am not a puppet to the whims of fate. You of all people should be able to appreciate the courage it takes to determine your own pathway.”

His eyes glittered with amusement. “There is a difference, Battlemaster, between choosing what one desires to have for breakfast, and whether or not one should end the reign of a genocidal tyrant,” he said. “The difference being, of course, that you seem to be under the impression that your choice in the latter is solely your own, and does not warrant the input of the trillions of other lives affected by what decision you make.”

“I will not be celebrated as a killer!” she snapped, humiliated at the way her voice wobbled with the onset of tears. 

“And so you would rather be celebrated as a naive idealist, who condemned the galaxy to death?” 

Thexan stepped in between them, his eyes flat with hostility as he stared at Scourge. “I’m sorry, but how are you at all relevant to our current situation?” he asked bluntly. “I don’t quite understand what it is you’re doing here, or how you’re supposed to be of use to us.”

“Have a care, young prince, I have forgotten more about death and pain in my lifetime than you could even begin to fathom. The ways in which I could punish you for your insolence are almost limitless.”

“Is being bored to death by your pomposity and self-aggrandizing one of them? You had a vision. You interpreted it incorrectly. Get over it.” 

There was an actual drop in the temperature around them as Scourge’s eyes grew darker. “Bold words for a man whose own people are led by the dictates of the Scions.”

Thexan didn’t even falter. “Perhaps I feel no need to watch my tongue around a dog who killed for my father for three hundred years because he was more interested in self preservation than in behaving honorably,” he said, his voice icy cold. “Do not insult Ona’la for acting in a manner she found most comforting, when you spent three centuries prioritising your own survival over that of everyone you encountered.”

Scourge didn’t answer immediately, his expression unreadable as he absorbed Thexan’s words. Behind them all, Xolani made a noise of impatience, but did not try to interrupt. 

Ona’la, for her part, didn’t know whether she was more stunned at Thexan acknowledging Vitiate as his father, or at his ferocious and unquestioning defense of her. 

“There is a difference,” Scourge began, but Thexan cut him off.

“ _Shut up_. Perhaps if you were more invested in acting in a genuine spirit of cooperation, instead of dictating your requirements to others, you would have stood a chance against my father sooner.” He looked him up and down disdainfully. “I don’t know why he kept you alive for so long. No wonder he replaced you.”

For a long, ugly moment, Ona’la was actually convinced they were about to come to blows, the tension crackling so fiercely that there were literal sparks in the air, as if the oxygen itself was about to ignite. 

“Gentlemen,” Xolani called disapprovingly, “this is hardly the time.” 

Surprisingly, Thexan looked away first, his gaze immediately seeking out Ona’la’s as if asking silently for her input. Something in the steely grey of his eyes made her shiver, because his intent was bared for her, the offer to intervene on her behalf if she required it. 

It wasn’t like she’d never had people offer to defend her before, quite the opposite- even despite her impressive martial prowess, people seemed determined to think that she was something that required protecting above all else, and she’d lost count of the number of times that there’d been offers of nameless, faceless soldiers, thrown en masse at certain death in order to make sure she survived. People did it almost eagerly, as if their deaths served her purpose, and she always went out of her way to refuse such offers of assistance. Sometimes it meant she was a little more sore at the end of the day, patiently applying kolto to laser burns and strained muscles, but it meant more to her that way. 

And that wasn’t to say she didn’t have people close to her, either, who’d stood in defense of her- Kira was relentless like that, often running her mouth before her brain had had time to process the thought, just so long as she was spitting defiance back at whoever had tried to threaten her. Theron too, on the few ops they’d run together, had never hesitated to step between her and danger, despite how she scolded him for it. Lady Amaara had spoken unflinchingly in support of her, during the Senate investigation into the events leading up to Uphrades, and again before the High Council in the weeks after her escape from Vitiate’s space station. 

That wasn’t even taking into consideration everything that Master Orgus had done for her before his death. 

So she wasn’t sure why it was different with Thexan, why it both stunned and dismayed her to see the same look in his eyes, and why it left her feeling like she was in untested waters. 

“Rein in your pup, Battlemaster,” Scourge said flatly, breaking the moment between them, “or I’ll not be responsible for whatever ill befalls him in his stupidity.”

She saw Thexan’s face morph into cold fury again, and he went to turn to face him. Ona’la’s hand snapped out, snaring him around the wrist; her heart felt like it was in her throat, and Thexan’s muscles tensed under her fingers. “Please don’t,” she whispered, because she wasn’t sure what else to say. 

His nostrils flared slightly as he breathed out heavily, and then she sensed the moment that he relented, his disgruntlement echoing through her by means of their odd connection a heartbeat before he nodded jerkily. “Very well,” he muttered, withdrawing his hand from her grip and very pointedly turning his back on Scourge to take his place in their odd little procession. 

Ona’la felt her heart drop when Scourge laughed, something skin-crawling in the sound. “How quickly the whelp comes to heel,” he began, and behind her she felt Thexan stiffen again at the insult. 

She was not the fastest to respond to the comment, however; Xolani all but marched past her, stomping into Scourge’s space and looming over him. “If you do not mind your tongue, sith, I will cut it out,” she said, her voice icy cold. Ona’la blinked in surprise at the outburst, and Thexan paused at her side too. 

Scourge seemed unaffected by her threat. “The day I find the blustering of a Jedi to be a true danger to my person is the day-”

“I am the Commander of the Sixth Line, Scourge,” Xolani said, and if possible she seemed to grow even taller, towering over the sith. “We do not issue threats lightly, and unlike most Jedi, we follow through on them.”

“I’m quite sure I’m quaking in my boots.” 

“Enough. You are a child, Scourge, looking to be the biggest bully on the playground, because it suits your ego.” She arched a dark eyebrow at him. “If you are incapable of interacting with others in a civil manner, I shall craft a sock puppet, and every time you throw another childish tantrum like this one, I shall see to it that the only one willing to speak to you is the puppet.”

For the first time, he paused. “Am I supposed to take you seriously, right now?” he asked dubiously. The temperature settled back to a more tolerable level. 

“Well, I can’t take you seriously, so perhaps we have that in common,” she snapped. “I would prefer not to be burdened with your presence, but I suppose that decision does not lie with me. I will not, however, hesitate to treat you like the child you seem determined to be, so how long do you suppose you can stomach being addressed by a puppet, having the troops and the crew of this vessel laughing at you behind your back?”

“I am growing tired of your-”

Xolani’s hand instantly lifted to shoulder height, her thumb tucked beneath her fingers in the same way one would hold their hand to mimic a mouth, or a claw. “What’s that, Scourge?” she asked with icy calm, her hand moving to match the words, as if she was indeed using a puppet. “You don’t like being spoken to like a bratty child?”

His eyes glittered with hostility. After a long, tense moment, he breathed out sharply. “You have made your point, madam,” he said flatly. “Desist.” 

Master Xo held her hand level with her shoulder for a few more seconds, almost as if a warning, and then slowly lowered it; she smiled thinly. “Speak civilly, and with respect, or I will not hesitate to make you the laughingstock of this alliance. I am too old to be dealing with this sort of nonsense.”

“Madam, I am hundreds of years older than you.” 

“Then perhaps _act_ like it,” she said coldly, her voice sharp with the commanding edge of a woman who expected to be obeyed without question. Without turning around, she said “Moff Pyron?”

Perhaps Ona’la thought a little unkindly of Darth Nox when she saw how quickly the Moff leapt to answer Xolani’s summons, but she would not ever speak it aloud. “At your service, my Lo- I mean, Master Jedi.” 

“Where are we going?”

“I’m afraid that, as Lord Dara said in earlier communications to you, it is imperative that-”

“Yavin Four,” Scourge said flatly, interrupting him.

Moff Pyron’s jaw snapped shut audibly, and then he was smiling tightly. “Yes, Yavin Four. As Lord Scourge says, Lord Dara has established her base of operations in the Yavin sector.”

“Thank you, Moff Pyron. And how long until we arrive?” 

“Approximately a day and a half, now that we are not hindered by the need to make an elaborate system of false jumps to throw off any pursuers.” 

“I am not entirely familiar with the accommodation allowances on Imperial vessels- are there quarters available for us, a section of the barracks if nothing else?”

“We have a fully prepared guest hall, as per Imperial charter three four nine aurek dash zero zero aurek for the proper conformity of quarters suitable for any visiting senior personnel and or sith. As the commander of our fleet, Darth Nox did have some... personal modifications made, but the berths are all perfectly adequate for a short journey. Granted, they are not spacious, but all rooms come fully equipped with a personal refresher room, a wall-mounted single capacity berth for greater comfort during turbulence, with limited storage capacity beneath the module. I think you’ll find it quite to your satisfaction.”

Xolani nodded to him. “I’m sure we will. Thank you, Moff Pyron- perhaps we could retreat to our quarters for a time? What little sleep we managed was unfortunately interrupted.”

“Of course.” At his gesture, they set off down the wide corridor again, their footsteps echoing on the polished floors. “And I must say, bravo on managing to retain the pod with minimal damage- Lord Dara will be most pleased at the acquisition.”

Beside her, Ona’la saw Thexan perk up ever so slightly, as if intrigued by the news. “Oh?” he asked. 

“It has been most difficult to obtain functional pieces of Zakuulan technology for study,” he said candidly, waving his hand as if it was no great obstacle and as if he weren’t, in fact, talking to a prince of Zakuul. “There was a great deal of debris scattered over Korriban, but there was little of value amongst the pieces, far too damaged to be of any real use, and we did have some success on Hoth, given how poorly Zakuul’s forces fared there-”

“Yes, thank you for that,” Thexan said bluntly. “I’m sure if Lord Dara has questions about my people’s technology she could save everyone a great deal of time by just asking _me_.” 

Ona’la blinked, surprised; it was the first time she’d ever heard Thexan make any kind of offer of assistance towards... well, towards _anyone_. Until now, he’d rather vehemently been determined to act the part of the sullen captive, with the exception of trying to slice into the sleeper pod. Which, presumably, had been an attempt to save his own life too, rather than any sort of moment of altruism on his part. 

She’d spent the better part of the last two months trying to coax him out of himself, trying to win his friendship, and now he offered his services to the Wrath without even having met her? Was it because Lord Dara had served his father willingly, was even rumoured to have known his favour while he fell silent for the rest of the Empire, before breaking free of his control in the most extraordinary of circumstances? 

Did he feel some sort of _kinship_ with her, this sith lord, that she herself could not offer to him? 

Oh goddess help her, was she feeling _jealous_ of the Wrath? 

She realised too late that she her attention had lapsed, and she’d lost track of the conversation; more than that, however, she’d lost some of her momentum, falling back a few steps, and she looked up to find Scourge stalking along beside her. 

Ona’la immediately tensed, and he chuckled. “A rather inauspicious reason for a reunion, wouldn’t you say, my dear?” he asked, his voice as silken and sinister as she was accustomed with. “So fortuitous that I happened to be travelling with your escort, the better to come to your aid all the sooner.”

“Please don’t flatter yourself, Scourge,” she said, keeping her voice low so as to not attract the attention of the other three. 

“One would almost think that makes you indebted to me yet again for your life-”

“It means nothing of the sort,” she hissed, her lekku curling slightly against her back. She tried to relax them with some difficulty. “Scourge, I don’t know what dealings you have with Lord Dara, or why you’re even here, but please- just leave me alone. I realise I’ve disappointed you-”

“Disappointment is about an accurate a conveyer of my feelings as it is to hold a handful of red sand in one’s hand and declare one holds all of Tatooine in their grasp.” 

She had nothing she could say in response to that, nothing that could possibly come close to bridging the divide between them- they were simply too different, and despite her frustration it still broke her heart to know that she couldn’t help him in the way that he so desperately needed. 

And so they walked in silence, bringing up the rear of the group as the Moff continued with his polite impression of a tour guide, or a hotelier, and Thexan badgered him with questions about Lord Dara’s acquisition of Zakuulan technology. 

It should have been refreshing to see him so animated for once, but she was tired, and she was feeling peculiarly brittle, and she wanted to be selfish for once in her life. 

Moff Pyron led them to a corridor several decks higher up that looked no different from every other corridor they’d traversed so far; it was a wonder anything was punctual in the Empire, because surely most of their personnel had to get lost on at least a daily basis just trying to change between their work stations. Ona’la was barely paying attention as he showed first Xolani and then Thexan to a door each, too caught up in her own thoughts to be of much use; she missed the moment when Thexan glanced back at her, his gaze flicking between her and Scourge, before he vanished into the berth and closed the door behind him. 

Leaving her alone in the corridor with a functionally immortal sith lord, and a vaguely treacherous Moff. 

As if sensing her abrupt trepidation, Moff Pyron cleared his throat. “My lord- Battlemaster,” he corrected, looking chagrined. “Apologies, the abrupt shift in nomenclature takes some getting used to. Please, I mean no disrespect.”

Ona’la waved a hand tiredly, dismissing the point. “It’s alright, Pyron,” she said, and then hesitated. “Or- Moff, I should say, I’m afraid I have a tendency towards being far too familiar with those I serve with.”

“Indeed,” Pyron said, his eyes flicking momentarily between Scourge and herself. “Alright, well. I’m not sure if Lord Scourge has had the opportunity to speak to you about this issue, but I’m afraid we do have a slight complication in regards to sleeping quarters.”

“I don’t follow, there looks to be plenty of berths here- are they all occupied?”

“What he means to say, is that there is always one private suite intended for use by the ranking sith lord,” Scourge said, something almost gleeful in his tone. “A suite of rooms complete with private office for the lord in residence to go about the business of their own affairs.”

“Oh,” she said, looking from one man to the other. “I don’t understand.”

“As per the Imperial charter for proper acknowledgement of the chain of command, the suite _must_ go to the ranking lord on the vessel. It is a breach of protocol to observe otherwise.”

Ona’la still couldn’t understand his concerns. “Is this about Thexan? Since he’s Vitiate’s son? I’m sure if you offered to him, he would-”

“He means you, Battlemaster,” Scourge said, the reason for his delight suddenly evident. “The suite in question belongs to the ranking lord, which would be you.”

“Oh,” was all she could say.

“Which is, ah, somewhat of an issue, because until now the ranking lord on the ship was Lord Scourge, and as such he has made the suite his own in the last few weeks.”

Oh.

She turned slowly to face Scourge, who was grinning in that entirely unsettling manner of his. “Scourge,” she said warningly, her voice tense, “please don’t.”

He chuckled softly. “Ah, but my dear Battlemaster, it is only out of the _deepest_ respect for you and an acknowledgement of your status as the higher ranking Force user-”

“Scourge, I don’t want to sleep in your bed. Please stop.”

“You say it like you think we’ll be _sharing_ , Battlemaster, I can assure you that absolutely is not-”

“She said _no_.” At the snapped statement, they both turned to face Moff Pyron, who seemed to realise too late that he had spoken out against a sith lord. His face drained of colour, but he still drew himself upright, adjusting the cuffs on his formal jacket with jerky, stilted movements. “As I expressed to you earlier, Lord Scourge, I find it- inappropriate to- to goad the Battlemaster in such a manner. She is Lord Dara’s guest, not yours, and as such I-” He looked like his courage was about to fail, but then he steeled himself. “I must ask you to desist.”

Scourge breathed out slowly, and Ona’la felt the violence simmering in him. “Thank you, Moff Pyron,” she said quickly, cutting him off before he could rail at the poor man. “I believe I will make myself comfortable in one of the berths here- there’s no need to upset whatever arrangement Lord Scourge has in place.”

He looked so desperately relieved that she thought he might faint. “As you say, Battlemaster.”

“That will be all, Moff,” she said, not willing to leave him alone with Scourge lest the sith decide to take out his temper on him. “I’m sure you have numerous other things that require your attention before we arrive on Yavin Four.”

He threw her a grateful look, bowing slightly, before turning and marching down the corridor and out of sight. 

She had the distinct impression that he only just managed to restrain himself from bursting into a run. 

Behind her, Scourge hissed out a breath. “I do not appreciate you making me out to be a fool in front of your little flock of sycophants,” he said, all trace of warmth gone from his voice now that they were alone. 

Ona’la could feel the very ends of her temper starting to fray, and she was frustrated to feel tears welling in her eyes. “I do not appreciate you ambushing me and attempting to undermine the work I am doing,” she snapped in response.

“I have only ever sought to empower you, to assist you on the path towards your one true destiny-”

She made a frustrated noise, throwing her hands up in the air. “Will you _stop?_ ”

“Not until I have served my duty and seen to it that Vitiate is truly dead at your hand, just as I foresaw.” 

“Don’t speak to me for the rest of the voyage, Scourge,” she said, her voice trembling treacherously. “I’d appreciate it if you could refrain from making contact with any of my party, actually.”

She turned and stalked back down the corridor towards the doors the Moff had indicated were the single berths, trying to dredge up enough recognition to make sense of where he’d settled Xolani and Thexan. She didn’t want to be too far away from them, on the off chance that something more went wrong, and they needed her in a hurry. 

Scourge’s gaze burned into her back the entire time she walked away from him, like a searing point between her shoulder blades. 

Her fingers fumbled slightly as she tried to open the door to the room she gauged to be suitably close enough to the other two, and it took her a two attempts to get the keypad to allow her entry. Once inside, she spun about quickly to close it, her hand shaking as she tried to block out the sight of Scourge standing at the far end of the hall, still watching her. 

The door slid quietly shut, and she let out a ragged sigh of relief, drooping against the metal and letting her head come to rest upon it. 

“Can I help you?”

Her heart lurched up into her throat at the sound of Thexan’s voice behind her, and she closed her eyes against the crippling embarrassment. “I’m not in my room, am I?”

“I’m surprised you even need to ask,” he replied, and he actually sounded vaguely amused, something almost new for him. “Dare I ask in return what it is that had you in such a fluster that you mistook my room for yours?” 

Steeling herself, she turned around, finding him lying on his side on the bed- fully dressed, thank goodness- with a datapad discarded on the blankets by his hand. He had a hand propping his head up, watching her curiously. 

She offered him a weak smile. “Scourge,” she said simply, knowing it wouldn’t need further explanation. 

The amusement in his eyes died instantly, replaced by something darker as he sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bunk. “Where is he?” he asked, coming to the door as if he meant to charge out into the hallway to find him. 

“No, no, Thexan,” she said, putting her hands up to stop him; she stayed in front of the door, blocking his way, and her hands came to rest on his chest when he didn’t immediately stop, all but pinning her between his body and the door. She took a shaky breath. “Thexan, please don’t make it worse.”

“What’s to make worse? If I put him out an airlock, the problem is solved. He’ll no longer bother you and it won’t escalate any further.”

She looked up, his expression deadly serious. “Please,” she whispered. “For me?”

“I’d be killing him _for_ you.” She winced, and glanced away; a moment later, he sighed. “I apologise, those words were unkind. I would not kill in your name.” 

She slowly relaxed, the panic easing away. “Thank you,” she said quietly. 

“Unless you wanted me to, of course.”

“ _Thexan_ ,” she scolded, horrified at the slight flutter in her chest at the offer. 

She heard him sigh in frustration again, and more than that she _felt_ it, her hands still pressed flat against his chest. “Fine,” he said under his breath, and she picked that moment to glance back up at him, finding him watching her in return.

For a long moment, they stared at each other, and Ona’la wasn’t even sure if she was breathing; his eyes were stormy and grey, flecks of blue throughout in a way that made her think of the roiling storms that hung over the seas on Manaan, endless ocean and endless skies and storms that consumed everything in their approach. 

Then he cleared his throat and took a step backwards, and Ona’la was left light-headed and wondering just what had happened. “Do you...” He hesitated, his mouth twisting as if he was struggling to phrase the words. “Do you need me to escort you to your room? If he’s being so insufferable?” 

She closed her eyes, slumping back against the door. “I don’t know what I need,” she said wearily, and then sighed. “I’m sorry, Thexan, that was pointlessly melodramatic of me, you don’t need to put up with my griping.” 

“I believe we’ve already had at least one conversation about your incessant need to apologize for everything, and how it’s unnecessary.” 

“I’m-”

“Definitely not going to say sorry as the next word out of your mouth, are you?” 

She cracked open an eye to find him watching her, arms crossed and an amused look on his face. He wasn’t precisely smiling, per se, but he was certainly on the way to it. “I can’t help but feel that you’re trying to make a joke, Thexan,” she said. 

“You make it sound like you expect the heat death of the universe to occur first.” 

It felt like that moment they’d shared a week ago, although it felt like a lifetime ago, when she’d found him in distress in his room and had calmed him down and had taken away the reminder of his brother, only for their conversation to turn lighter. Almost teasing. If she hadn’t already known how poorly Thexan thought of her, with his repeated insistence that they were not friends, she would have assumed they’d been flirting with one another. 

It felt like that- only this time she was the one feeling fragile and vulnerable, and he hadn’t flinched away from that side of her. 

She managed a shaky laugh. “Come now, Thexan, I’ve already been privy to a number of miracles in my lifetime, I dare not ask for another.” 

“I’ve noticed you have a tendency not to ask for _anything_ for yourself,” he said wryly, and she was relieved at least that the teasing jab was taken in good faith. He reached a hand forward, and she tensed instantly. “It’s alright,” he said plaintively, carefully taking her hand in his and tugging her away from the door, “but if you press yourself any harder to that wall, you are going to become some sort of bizarre feature, like some oversized barnacle.” 

She laughed again, nervously, his fingers hot where they held hers. “I’m sorry, I can go,” she began, but he shook his head. 

“I shouldn’t have aggravated Lord Scourge,” he said, and then he grimaced. “I’m... sorry.” 

She blinked, startled. “I- beg pardon?”

“I said I’m sorry,” he repeated, his voice a little strained. “I realise I should not have succumbed to his baiting, but he- I did not appreciate his comments. Or his attitude.”

Ona’la stared at him for so long that a frown slowly settled over his face. 

“I... was that the wrong thing to say?” 

She swallowed, hoping the uncomfortable ball of emotions lodged in her throat would settle, and not push her closer to tears again. “Nothing, it’s just...” She took a shaky breath. “I don’t think you’ve ever apologised to me before.” 

The frown turned into a look of confusion. “Surely not,” he said slowly. 

Ona’la shook her head. “No, I- um. I don’t think you’ve ever...” It was too much. “I should leave.”

“Ona’la, please.” His jaw was clenched as he hesitated, and there was a look of frustration in his eyes. He breathed out sharply through his nose, squeezing her hand gently in his. “I don’t- I don’t want you to go.”

She realised she was holding her breath, and she let it out slowly. “I don’t understand,” she said softly.

“You’re upset,” he said, gesturing to her jerkily with his free hand, “and that’s partially my fault. I would be- doing you a disservice if I just... did nothing.”

“Thexan...”

“You said you wanted to be my friend,” he said. “Well, here I am, wanting to help, or... something. Killing Scourge would be something.”

She closed her eyes in resignation.

“ _Please_ let me kill him for you?” 

The thrill it sent through her to hear him beg her so earnestly for something so dark should have horrified her, but it didn’t. Quite the opposite. “If I stay, will you promise not to fight Scourge again?” she asked, glancing up at him from beneath her lashes. 

His expression was strained, but he nodded. 

She licked her lips, and his eyes followed the movement. “Then I’ll stay,” she said softly. 

He nodded solemnly. “Okay then,” he said. And then he moved forward.

Instinct had her putting her hand up to stop him, her eyes widening at his closeness. “What are you doing?” she asked, annoyed at the way her voice had risen to a higher pitch. 

Thexan hesitated, and she realised after a moment that he was embarrassed. “Trying to hug you?” he said awkwardly.

_Oh._

“Oh,” she said, just as awkwardly. “Um, why?”

He hesitated again, and he closed his eyes as if he was hoping the floor would swallow him whole. “Because you are upset? And I wanted to... help.”

“Oh,” she said again, rather redundantly. “Alright.”

Thexan’s eyes snapped open, honest to goodness surprise in his face. “You- what?”

“Alright,” she said, putting her hand down.

He stared at her for a long moment, a touch of colour in his cheeks, and then he abruptly stepped forward; his arms came up around her like clamps, hardly a very comforting gesture. She let out a little _oomph_ at the impact, and he patted her briefly on the shoulder in what she assumed was supposed to be a token measure of his support, and then he stepped back, the moment over as quickly as it had begun. 

She could feel every single place where her body had touched his, acutely so, and she felt dizzy from it. 

“There we go,” he said awkwardly, the vague panic in his eyes seeming to imply that he was still waiting for the floor to swallow him up. “A hug. To make things better.”

She smoothed her hands down the front of her slightly crinkled robes. “Indeed,” she said, offering him a tremulous smile. 

They stared at each other for a few awkward moments, and then Thexan abruptly looked away. “Well, you- would you like a seat?”

Ona’la glanced over her shoulder. “... where?”

“On the-” He must have realised as the word was in his mouth what it sounded like, because she saw the cringing look in his eyes. “Bed?”

She looked from him to the single bunk, which while bigger than your standard barracks fare, was still a small _bed_. Even when they’d been travelling on the _Illustrious_ , they’d still had room to sit apart from one another. 

She licked her lips again, shrugging as she tried to ignore the way her belly felt like it was fluttering. “Sure,” she said edging over to the far side of the bed and carefully easing herself down onto the very edge. After several painfully long moments, Thexan followed, just as cautious as he sat down on the other end of the bed. 

“What were you reading?” she asked, gesturing to the discarded datapad on top of the blankets. 

He shrugged, trying to look unconcerned but she sensed his hesitance. “Reading up on Lord Dara,” he said, the admittance almost embarrassed. “Our Intelligence files had very little on her early life, next to nothing until she arrived on Korriban, so I was hoping the Imperial database might shed a little more light on her.”

“And?”

“Nothing. I don’t know why I hoped otherwise.”

Ona’la smiled faintly, trying to quash the niggling worm of jealousy within her. “That seems true to form,” she said. “She was- is, I should say, a remarkably private woman.” 

The conversation stopped there, and for a moment they sat there awkwardly, neither quite looking at the other and neither quite sure what was expected of them. Finally, Ona’la cleared her throat, nodding towards the holoscreen on the opposite wall. “Do you fancy watching something?”

“Watching something?”

“A holodrama. Or a sports match. People need entertainment, even in a war.” She felt his gaze on her, and she glanced at him. “Thoughts?” 

There was a curious look on his face, as if he was scrutinizing her, and something about it made her lekku shiver and squirm against her back. “I don’t have any better suggestions,” he said after a moment. 

She found the activation remote hidden in a panel in the wall beside the screen, and although the appearance of the menus bore some cosmetic differences to what she was used to on the Republic servers of the holonet, functionally it was the same. 

Ona’la flicked through the lists, looking for something tolerable. “Propaganda, propaganda, disturbing content,” she murmured to herself, skipping over the offending material. “Propaganda, indoctrination program, goddess above, do they not just acknowledge pop culture in the Empire?” 

“Are you sure that the ones you skipped as ‘ _propaganda_ ’ aren’t in fact their version of pop culture?” 

“There’s a thought- you’ll have to tell me what sort of entertainment industry Zakuul has sometime.”

“I’m sure you’ll find the acclaimed operatic production immortalizing my father’s battle against Izax to be firmly in your ‘ _propaganda_ ’ column.”

She glanced at him, not sure if he was joking or not, but his expression was inscrutable. She offered him a tentative smile, nervously glancing back to the screen. “Oh, here we go, what about Agent: Cathar? That’s some good silly fun.”

“If you say so,” he said dryly, settling back against the wall.

She keyed up the first episode- they only had season two, blast it all- and after a moment’s hesitation she came to rest beside him, with a few careful inches between them. “It’s sort of like a historical spy drama, but more outrageous. Fighting plans to destroy the galaxy and what not.”

Thexan didn’t reply as the music began to play, but the moment the footage began running over the holoscreen he apparently couldn’t restrain himself. “Who is that? Does she know them?”

Ona’la bit her tongue as she fought down a smile. “If you’d just wait and see-”

“ _Chief Ariandore, I didn’t expect to see you out of Mandalorian space again._ ”

“-then the show will explain it,” she finished, her gaze sliding carefully over to him. He was relaxed, in a way she hadn’t seen him before, even if there was a little furrow between his brows as he frowned at the holo. 

“That doesn’t explain it, all I know now is that she’s a Mandalorian and they’ve met before,” he said, waving a hand towards the screen. “Why would a Cathar and a Mandalorian be working together, if this is supposed to be set just after the Mandalorian Wars?”

“ _I didn’t expect to find myself outside of Mandalore again,_ ” the helmeted woman said on the screen, “ _but there’s bigger things out there, bigger hunts. Could never resist a challenge- thought you’d know that by now about me_ ”

“That’s the point,” Ona’la said, still fighting the grin at the perplexed look on his face. “Nobody thinks a Cathar and a Mandalorian would be able to find common ground, everyone thinks they’d be enemies. Well, they sort of were enemies in season one, but now they’re sort of... good-natured adversaries with similar goals.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“What, enemies grudgingly becoming friends?” she teased, bumping him against the shoulder. “Hmm, I see what you mean, in what world would that ever be possible?” 

His head turned to face her, a dry look of amusement on his face, as he raised his eyebrows at her. “If I didn’t know better, Master Jedi, I’d assume you were rather sneakily trying to impart some sort of serious life lesson on me.” 

He met her teasing with teasing of his own, and for some reason that delighted her. “I can assure you, your Highness, I would never attempt to be sneaky around you.” 

Thexan smiled- _actually_ smiled, his eyes alight with mischief, and it occurred to Ona’la in a moment of breathless realisation that she didn’t think she’d ever seen him smile, not properly. Sometimes she’d caught him fighting a smile as he turned away, and sometimes he’d grimaced at her in a vague approximation of a smile- the sort one gives when one absolutely does not want to smile but is forced by circumstances to be polite-, but she’d never seen... _this_.

He looked like a different person entirely when he smiled. 

_She_ felt like a different person entirely when he smiled. 

“I’m going to choose to believe you,” he said, wryly amused and apparently unaware of the effect his smile had on her. 

The rest of the episode went on in the same manner- Thexan asking questions half a second before the show gave him the answer, constantly dubious about the plot, laughing incredulously at the political influence a single secret agent seemed to wield. “We don’t have to watch more if you don’t like it,” she said, as the production notes began to flash on the holoscreen with the theme song playing in the background. Really she was still reeling from the fact that he’d smiled- from the fact that he’d _laughed_ \- to be too concerned one way or another.

“No, no, it’s fine. It amuses me how ludicrous it is.”

It clicked over to the next episode seamlessly, and so it was easy enough to just relax and listen to Thexan’s increasingly sarcastic commentary on the events on the screen. She was so tired, and so exhausted, and it suddenly felt like the last few months were all bearing down on her at once. 

It was odd, but she felt safe there- sitting beside him on the bed, watching a corny action holodrama, the sound of his voice a pleasant drone in the background... 

She slowly slid sideways, coming to rest up against him, her head on his shoulder as she drifted off to sleep. 

____

The holoscreen was still playing away merrily, but Thexan hadn’t been watching it for some time now. Instead, his attention was on Ona’la, warm and soft and cuddled into his side as if she was completely comfortable doing so, as if she felt safe and relaxed and protected at his side. 

Fast asleep. 

He could walk out of the room right now and deal with Scourge, and she wouldn’t be able to stop him. But he found that he didn’t want to do that- or rather, he didn’t want to disappoint her, and that desire was stronger than his need to see the former Wrath dealt with. 

“What are you doing to me?” he murmured, not particularly looking for an answer as he reached up to gently adjust her lekku, so it wasn’t hanging over her face. 

He tugged up the corner of the blanket and draped it over her as much as he was able, and then settled back to keep watching the ridiculous spy show- and trying not to think at all about what she’d said about the impossible becoming possible when enemies became friends. 

Still didn’t like the show, though. 

... maybe.


	25. Chapter 25

Arcann never slept well anymore. 

The incident on Korriban had obviously been the beginning of it all- the loss of his arm and the excruciating burns over his face and neck and shoulder had seen to it that he couldn’t easily find solace in sleep without the help of sedatives. The pain was constant, a searing background ache that was the first thing he was aware of when he woke in the mornings and the last thing he remembered at night. 

He liked it that way. It fuelled him, in a way that his frustrations and his anger at his father never had, because unlike the petty seething emotions that clouded his focus, pain was not something that Thexan could talk him down from. He could block the pain with the aid of drugs, or attempt to meditate, but it was always there. Always burning, always eating away at him whenever his cybernetic arm moved in the jagged, ruined socket of his shoulder, whenever he spoke or yawned or did anything to pull on the seared flesh of his face, hidden beneath the curve of the mask he wore. 

He liked it, because with the pain to distract him, it wasn’t Thexan that he thought of first thing in the morning, or last thing at night. 

Or the way Thexan had looked at him with nothing more accusatory in his face than surprise as he’d died in his arms. 

The pain made it easier. 

He was already awake when his personal staff came to rouse him for the day, as he always was; he never took enough sedatives to see him through the night, because he despised his reliance on them as a weakness, a flaw that could be exploited. All it would take was for his enemies to bide their time, waiting until the blissful arms of unconsciousness enveloped him, only to strike when he was at his most vulnerable and insipid. 

So when the lights to his vast private quarters illuminated to indicate the onset of another day, he was already rising from the bed, the black silken sheets being stripped away for cleaning the moment he was on his feet. If there was a paramore still within the bed, they were hastily ushered away through a private door, and warned not to make the mistake of assuming that an invitation to the Emperor’s bed was an invitation to stay ever again.

They would see to him as a cohesive unit, showing him into the bathing chambers where they alternated between the cleansing rituals to prepare him for the day, and the medical and cybernetic check-ups necessary to see to it that his injuries did not attempt to kill him. While they sponged him clean, rinsing away the grit and the sweat of the previous day and any activities he’d enjoyed throughout the night, the medical staff removed his mask- the only time he allowed such a vulnerability to occur in the presence of others. While pleasant young individuals rubbed scented oils into his skin, the doctors poked and prodded for signs of infection in the ruined flesh, applying kolto gel along the inflamed edges of the cybernetic arm where metal joined painfully with meat. 

Eyedrops in his ruined eye, to hydrate the withered orb and delay the blindness that encroached a little more each day. Oil applied to the joints and working sockets of the arm, reflex tests performed to make sure it was still as responsive as a true flesh and blood limb.

Pampered and prodded at the same time, a lord and a monstrosity. 

Through it all his steward would stand off to the side, carefully reciting the events taking place in the greater galaxy that he had missed during the night, taking note of which he asked to be prioritized when he made his way to the war room in an hour or so’s time. Where had the Republic attempted to defend themselves, where had the Sith struck out, who had fought and who had capitulated, which independent worlds had come crawling to them on their bellies like the worms that they were, begging for his indulgence, which prominent individuals had sent him entreaties trying to garner his favour, which-

His cybernetic hand clenched unexpectedly, snapping the tool of the engineer who’d been doing some fine rewiring through the palm; the outburst caused a few quiet gasps of surprise from his attendants, and the steward had trailed to a halt. 

“Repeat that last part,” he growled, his face twisting uncomfortably without the mask there to shield the raw ugliness of his expression. 

The steward barely hesitated, but it was enough for him to growl out a warning. “We have had reports out of Coruscant that the Jedi Battlemaster has departed from Galactic City,” they said, the stammer of fear only barely perceptible, “and she took with her the imposter they claim is His Imperial Highness Prince Thexan.”

“Where does the report say they went?”

“I- I do not know, your Imperial Majesty, that is all the information I have been given.”

He rose abruptly from the water, unconcerned by the small cries of dismay that he would interrupt the incomplete bathing ritual. “Summon the Exarchs,” he said, his voice dark with the promise of violence as he climbed out of the bathing pool and grabbed roughly at the towel held by a waiting attendant. 

He had not time for indulgences today, scrubbing himself dry with enough ruthless vigour that the pain from his shoulder almost left him breathless and dizzy. 

In a half hour’s time, he was stalking into the great open space of the war chamber, the galactic map spinning slowly on the giant projector in the centre of the room. Around the perimetre of the chamber, dozens of computer terminals were manned by the most dedicated and keen-eyed analysts that Zakuul had to offer, keeping a careful eye on the state of affairs across the galaxy and how Zakuul’s new emperor could best work it to his advantage. 

The Exarchs were already assembled when he arrived, milling about the galactic map in pairs and in threes, talking quietly amongst themselves as they waited for him. They were the greatest and most powerful warriors and leaders in the empire apart from himself and Vaylin, cybernetic force-users crafted into literal living weapons. They had no equal amongst the populace. 

At least one of them had failed him.

The room fell silent at his appearance, the Exarchs turning to face him; he could feel the mood of the chamber drop as they took in his obvious displeasure.

He didn’t waste time. “Who is responsible for Coruscant?” he asked, the harsh crackle of his voice modulator ringing in the silence. For a long, painful moment, no one spoke, and then finally someone cleared their throat. 

A single Exarch stepped forward, their features hidden by the exquisite golden mask they wore. “Your Majesty,” they said humbly, “how may I serve you?”

“Where is the imposter?”

Silence met his words, as if the question confused them all. “I- I beg your pardon, your Majesty?”

His robotic hand clenched instantly into a fist, the hiss and whir of the cybernetic elements a stand-in for the growl of frustration that he held back. “Where _is_ he?” he said carefully, making it intensely clear that he felt he was talking to idiots. 

The Exarch flinched slightly, the first sign of weakness. “Your Imperial Majesty, I regret to inform you that... that we do not know.” 

Arcann felt the rage building in him, the helplessness- and he _despised_ feeling helpless. Around him, the war room began to rattle, as if The Spire was experiencing an earthquake; there was, however, nothing natural about this phenomenon, and from the way the staff began to look about in queasy alarm, he knew they knew.

_Good._

He turned around slowly, his one visible eye now burning yellow instead of pale grey, and the sight of it was enough to have even the Exarch take a step back in fear. He raised the metal arm- an inhuman claw of Zakuulan steel and desperation- and the Exarch let out a choking noise, rising up onto their toes while their hands flew up to their throat. 

“Explain to me how a man distinctive enough to look like a Prince of Zakuul was able to slip beneath your notice and escape?”

The Exarch wheezed and gurgled, clawing at their throat. “Your Majesty-”

“Do we not have agents in place to observe the movements of critical figures within the Republic and the Sith Empire?” he snarled, spitting each word out individually for greater emphasis. “Do we not have the resources to keep track of the most famous Jedi in the _Izax damned galaxy?_ ” 

The panicked gurgling of the Exarch choking to death was his only answer, the rest of the room painfully silent as they all stood terrified witness to their Emperor’s rage. 

With a roar, he squeezed his cybernetic hand into a clenched fist, and the Exarch’s neck snapped loudly in the silence of the war room; he hurled the body to the side, sending it crashing into a cascade of monitors, glass and metal shards showering down on the technicians who’d been keeping track of the information coming through on the screens. 

“ _Where is he?_ ” he roared, the room shaking with the force of his fury. “ _Where is the pretender?_ ”

No one answered him. 

If possible, the rage in him burned brighter. “ _Find him!_ Find the imposter, burn the Republic down to ashes so that he has nowhere to hide! Let them know that we will not suffer this mockery!” When no one moved immediately, he let out a roar so violent that another series of computer terminals shorted out in a loud crackle of sparks and burning plastoid. “ _Now!_ ” 

The Exarchs and the intelligence analysts leapt into action, all of them careful to give him a wide berth as they rushed to clear away the body of their dead comrade, and bypass the still smoking workstations to bring the network back online again. 

Behind him, someone laughed, and if he hadn’t recognised the sound immediately, it was very likely he would have levelled the room in his fury. People did not _laugh_ at him.

Vaylin didn’t seem to think people rules applied to her, though.

When he turned slowly to face her, she seemed unperturbed by his burning yellow eye, leaning casually against the galactic map projector while chewing thoughtfully on what appeared to be some kind of pastry. He let out a quiet growl of warning, frustrated by her flippancy. 

She swallowed loudly, smacking her lips in an uncivilised manner to indicate her enjoyment of the snack. “Want some?” she asked, holding the half-eaten pastry out towards him.

“Vaylin,” he said warningly. 

“What? Is that a no? It’s quite nice, you know, we had this planet- I forget which one, too many names to keep track of honestly- but anyway we had this planet surrender last week, and they do the most _smashing_ jams and fruit preserves-”

“ _Vaylin_.”

“I think it’s got something to do with the soil or something... I mean, who cares right, because we own it now, so they can just send me all the jam for the kitchens to make me pastries, because this is _delicious_.”

Arcann stared at her, the yellow slowly fading from his eye even if his frustration levels didn’t drop. Around them, the staff made every effort to appear invisible, desperately trying to keep out of the way of the two siblings. “What do you want, Vaylin?” he asked, spitting out each syllable as if it were foul tasting. 

She pushed off of her perch and came sauntering over to him. “Came for the war council, now, didn’t I?” she said; there was a look of malevolent mischief in her eyes as she approached him. “Sure you don’t want a bite, then?”

“Vaylin-”

“Just open wide,” she said in a singsong voice, approaching him with the pastry in her outstretched hand. “I’ll just smoosh it through the vents of the mask-”

His cybernetic hand snapped up, the claw-like fingers closing around her wrist like a vice; Vaylin, to her credit, didn’t even flinch, her eyes narrowing with displeasure at what had to be a not insignificant amount of pain. 

“You didn’t say _no, brother_ dear,” she said pointedly.

“I would hope my answer would be _obvious, sister_ ,” he spat in response.

“See, this is why you’re so moody and keep throwing tantrums, you aren’t eating enough and your blood sugar is low, and you’re taking it out on-”

He tightened his grip slightly, just enough to act as a warning, and she slammed to a halt with a vexed grunt. “Had you perhaps forgotten to eat breakfast the other day, when you wandered off unsupervised and killed the guards at the treasure vaults?”

She hissed furiously at him. “I do not need to be supervised!” she snarled. “I am not a child!”

“Then act like it,” he said flatly, letting go of her wrist and shoving her back a step. “Don’t come into my war room and disrespect me in front of my generals, and I’ll continue to pretend you have a reason to be here each day.”

Vaylin stared at him with such hate in her eyes that it was a wonder she hadn’t triggered an aneurysm in his brain. The pastry was held loosely in her hand, large crumbly flakes falling onto the floor beside her. “It’s not him, you know,” she said curtly. “We’ve been over this.” 

Knowing it to be true logically and convincing his broken heart to accept it as fact were two very different things. “I know that,” he growled. 

“It sort of looks like you _don’t_ know that, what with the whole murdering people over losing track of him-”

“ _I will not allow Zakuul to be mocked by a single Jedi!_ ” The panels that had been rattled loose in his last explosive rant began to shake yet again. “She parades him around like a pet, like a trophy, spitting in the face of our grief, laughing at me-” 

“ _Arcann_.” Vaylin stepped in close to him, lowering her voice even though her eyes still glinted with malevolence. “If word were to get out about your behaviour in here, do you think the only person laughing at you would be that Jedi, hmm? Or do you think the rest of the galaxy might take note, and try to exploit this as a weakness against us?”

“You can’t tell me what to do-”

She grabbed his arm- his human arm, not the cybernetic one, because apparently he’d made his point adequately the first time with that one- and held him in place, eyes narrowed. “I wouldn’t _dream_ of telling you what to do, brother dear,” she said, with the sort of forced saccharine sweetness that made him aware of just how much she resented having to be the voice of reason. “But the High Justice of Zakuul might like to take this moment to quietly inform his Imperial Majesty that gossip is a very valuable currency, and if you carry on like this for much longer, someone _will_ hear of it. And whether they use their little puppet to demoralise our people or to discredit us or whatever they plan to do with him, they will push all the harder if they think it hurts.”

When he didn’t answer, she squeezed his arm warningly. “Do you understand, Arcann?”

“I understand,” he growled in annoyance, trying to pull free of her. “It’s not like it wasn’t a lesson father made sure to teach us on every occasion.”

Vaylin smiled thinly. “Mm, but he at least did you the courtesy of keeping his lessons outside of your head,” she said, an ominous reminder of everything she’d endured. She reached up and patted him on the mask, as if she would his cheek. “Now, be a good lad, take a deep breath, and let’s find this imposter, shall we?”

____

Thexan wasn’t sure where he was, but he had the most appalling ache in his neck. 

He groaned softly, sleep dragging at his heels as he tried to pull himself awake- and paused. He was uncomfortable, yes, his neck aching from the bad angle he’d slept at, but what had him pausing wasn’t so much the discomfort but the warmth pressed intimately against his side. 

_What...?_

He cracked open an eye, and found his view rather obscured by smooth blue skin curving away in front of him. 

_That_ was enough to wake him fully.

He must have jerked in surprise slightly, because he heard Ona’la murmur softly in her sleep, and if his heart hadn’t already been racing it would have been at the way she nestled in closer to him, settling back to sleep after the brief disturbance once she was comfortable again. 

_Her hand was on his thigh._

Blinking to clear away the grainy build up in his eyes- he dared not move to wipe at his eyes in case that woke her- he tried to move his head from side to side to work out the ache that had built in the night. In front of him, the holoscreen was still on, a blank screen waiting for user input after it had clearly run through all the available episodes of the drama she’d wanted to show him; he must have fallen asleep at some point, because he couldn’t say that he remembered anything even close to a conclusion. Something something doom of Coruscant, maybe it was a bomb, he couldn’t remember. 

He remembered Ona’la falling asleep, and he remembered being perturbed and intrigued at the fact that she felt safe enough in his presence to even want to lower her guard in such a manner, but he didn’t remember falling asleep with her. 

She was half curled into him, her head burrowed almost under his arm and her cheek resting on his chest. He could feel her breathing softly and slowly, completely and utterly at peace.

He could definitely feel her hand on his thigh and how warm she was and how soft she was and the scent of her was _everywhere_ and-

And he was definitely fully awake now, as were _other_ parts of him. _Stars above_ , he wouldn’t normally think that much of waking up with an erection but he _definitely_ was thinking things about it now that there was a woman lying across him that he was growing bizarrely fond of and didn’t want to greet her with... with _that_.

What could he even say? _Good morning, Ona’la, I trust you slept well, please disregard the state of my pants, my physiology makes this a regular morning occurrence, but also please don’t take this explanation to mean that I don’t find you attractive because I do, I most certainly do, but I respect your choice as a Jedi and you’ve told me about rejecting suitors in the past- not that I consider myself a suitor of course- and I do not wish to pressure you and-_

And he couldn’t even not babble when he was having an imaginary conversation with himself in his head. 

If he timed it right, he could disentangle himself from Ona’la and stand up in one movement, so that she wouldn’t even have a chance to notice his unfortunate predicament. He’d have to do it carefully, so as not to alarm her, because if she came lurching awake and tried to grab him or stand with him, his chance at avoiding embarrassment would be almost non-existent. 

He closed his eyes, trying to breathe evenly and trying to ignore the fact that he could feel the curves of her breasts squashed up against his chest- _for the love of Scyva, why would he think that, why would he notice that, that just made it so much worse_ \- he instead felt his heart lurch up into his throat when she stirred again, the soft, sleepy little noise she made sending a spiral of heat into his gut. 

It was painfully obvious the moment she came to enough to realise where she was, and who it was she was so intimately entwined with. She went remarkably still, and there was enough of a charge in the air from the tension that he wouldn’t have been surprised if the hair on his arm stood on end. 

There was nothing else for it but to get the confrontation over and done with. He gritted his teeth for a moment before forcing out “Good morning, Ona’la.”

His voice was rougher than he’d been hoping, husky from sleep, and he almost winced at the sound of it. Ona’la, for her part, seemed to be trying to gather her thoughts; he heard her take a deep breath, and her hand was very discreetly removed from his thigh. “Good morning, Thexan,” she said, her voice similarly husky. “I, um... what time is it?”

“I’m not sure,” he said, hesitating before pressing onwards. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Oh.” He could almost see her cringing, despite the fact that her cheek was still resting on his chest. “I-”

“It’s alright,” he said quickly. “I fell asleep too. You weren’t- I mean, you didn’t trap me here, it’s fine.”

Very slowly, she sat up, pulling away from him carefully, as if she expected him to shatter like glass at her retreat. He let her go, because, well, what else could he do? He tried very discreetly to raise his knee, just enough to make it look like he was changing positions to stretch out aching muscles and not at all like he was trying to cover his untimely erection; Ona’la was perched on the edge of the bed, smoothing her hands down over her sleep rumpled clothing almost absently, and thankfully hadn’t seemed to notice. 

In fact, she hadn’t looked at him once. 

“I, um...” She cleared her throat, almost nervously. “I apologise, Thexan, I should not have intruded.”

Apologies again- were they ever going to get to a point where she didn’t feel like apologising every two minutes? “Ona’la, it’s fine,” he said, rubbing at his eye with the heel of his palm. “I asked you to stay.”

“I should let you get what rest you can,” she said, rising to her feet as if he hadn’t spoken. “Or- to see to your ablutions, or- food, or-”

She didn’t even glance back at him before she all but fled from the room, leaving him sitting on the bed half-hard and still warm where she’d been pressed against him. 

Well.

That was... well. With a groan, he let his head fall back against the wall of the berth, eyes closed as he berated himself for his foolishness. It was a wonder she hadn’t fled from the room shrieking in horror, now that he thought about it- only her insurmountable sense of decency had left him with any dignity at all, refusing to make a scene just as she refused to make a scene with Scourge yesterday. Or... last night, this morning, whenever it was. 

He climbed wearily to his feet, rolling his head from side to side again to try and work out the kinks; he might as well make a better attempt to clean up, given that he’d never washed up after the attack by the sleeper pod. Master Xo had done a rather commendable job on healing his shoulder in the thick of the fight, but he hadn’t precisely stopped to examine the rest of his injuries with any care. 

He could shower, clean himself up, and then find a trooper to take him to the bridge- or, at the gurgling from his stomach, wherever they fed guests around here. He’d only ever taken his meals in his quarters on the invasion fleet, but he knew that soldiers ate in a mess hall. Did _he_ have to eat in a mess hall now?

The water ran hot at his command, and he stripped off quickly in the stark metal chamber, shivering at the brush of the air against his exposed skin. There was the scar across the palm of his hand from the incident in the galley, which despite happening rather recently was healing well, nothing more than a faint pink scar cutting through the lines on his palm. There was the shoulder blast, the skin pink and shiny and a little bit tight, but far better than it would have been without Master Xo’s quick ministrations. 

There was a small, untreated scab on his thigh, dried blood sticking his skin to his pants; he grimaced as he pulled it away sharply, reminding himself that Ona’la would not think highly of him if he were to remove the visual processors from that damned droid as payback for stabbing him in the leg. 

A few bruises, a few scratches, but otherwise he’d come out of it rather well. He let the water rinse away the sweat and the grit and the blood, closing his eyes and standing right under the spray and trying to forget the soft sound Ona’la had made on the brink of waking up. 

His cock, still half-hard, twitched with interest, and he groaned; leaning one arm up against the wall of the tiny cubicle, he let his head come to rest on his forearm as the other hesitantly came to rest on his lower belly. He thought of her hand resting on his thigh, the gesture as innocent as it was intimate.

_Fuck it_ , he thought, as he took himself in hand. 

When he came a few minutes later, he muffled his groan against his arm, turning his face into the crook of his elbow, and tried not to think about how he’d called out her name at the end. 

____

Ona’la was shivering so badly that it took her several attempts to get the door to her own quarters open, and she almost wept with relief when she saw her own bags sitting waiting for her on the bed, untouched given that she’d spent the night in _Thexan’s bed_ -

She moaned, covering her face with both hands as she felt a shiver run down her spine, heat pooling in her belly. What in the name of the goddess was she _thinking_? She was still warm from where he’d held her to him so gently, her entire body drenched in the scent of him so that she couldn’t escape it even in the privacy of her own rooms. 

Goddess help her, what must Thexan think of her? He’d already accused her weeks ago of flippantly bragging about the unwanted offers of marriage she’d had over the years, did he think this was just another scheme or gambit on her part, the way he seemed to think the others were? 

She felt flushed, trembling and shivery in a way she couldn’t ever remember feeling before, and the memory of his hand trailing down her back as she pulled away to the edge of the bed was enough to have her light-headed. 

Goddess preserve, she was attracted to Thexan. Which honestly, wasn’t particularly surprising because he _was_ very attractive in terms of humans and _goddess_ when he’d smiled at her last night- this morning?- it was as if his whole being was transformed and she didn’t place much stock in physical attraction because she never had any desire to act on it beyond acknowledging an aesthetic appreciation for an individual’s looks but this was _Thexan_ and this felt _different_ and _stars above_ -

She was babbling. She was having an argument with herself, and she was babbling. 

She took a deep breath, one hand on her forehead and the other on her chest, as if that would help the pounding of her heart. She needed to focus, she needed to calm herself and find her focus, because she was a Jedi first and foremost and she needed to focus. More lives than she could ever hope to count were relying on her to do the right thing, to keep Thexan safe and meet with Lord Dara, and hopefully find a way to meet the oncoming threat of Zakuul. 

She needed to focus. Not twist herself into a mess of distress and longing, wondering if she’d insulted Thexan by falling asleep on him- _don’t touch me_ , echoed in her head- and whether her familiarity with him was causing her to lose her perspective. 

Checking the desk monitor for an update, she found that she’d been asleep for almost six hours, and she fought back the urge to moan in frustration at herself. Instead she checked on the travel projections and found they’d made excellent time, with just under a twenty-four hour cycle projected until their arrival in the Yavin system. 

With nothing more pressing for her attention immediately than a need for food, she made the decision to see to her ablutions for the day, satisfied at least that the refresher had a small mirrored panel above the sink where she could apply her makeup. She hadn’t washed up since well before the fight with the Skytroopers, and she’d had the tussle with Thexan in the galley as well, and had probably missed some of the blood in her hasty cleanup. 

She shivered as she peeled her clothing away, leaving it where it fell on the floor to deal with afterwards. She felt too warm, too light-headed, like her skin was too tight and like something was buzzing within her, like the bubbles in a fizzy drink. Setting the shower cubicle to a cooler temperature didn’t seem to help overly, because the water just made her shiver all the more. 

_Clean, she needed to get clean, she needed to not think of Thexan right now while she was naked and aroused and-_

She fumbled around for the small bottle of moisturising oil she’d brought in with her, trying not to think of the other uses that it could have in the right circumstances. “This is why Jedi don’t try to- _relationships_ ,” she stammered to herself, humiliated that she couldn’t even form proper sentences when she only had herself for company. With a handful of oil cradled carefully in her palm, she reached up to smooth it over the sweep of first one lek, and then the other. “Too distracted to even bathe properly, how are you supposed to do- everything else?”

She was probably a bit more brisk with her ablutions than she needed to be, rubbing the moisturiser into her lekku firmly, so that the normally pleasant sensations didn’t encourage certain other feelings. As it was, the treacherous things _still_ curled around her wrists as she worked on them, and she shivered at the way the oil slick skin felt beneath her hands. 

... if she was distracted, there was an easy enough way to deal with the distraction. She was already here, after all, with slick fingers and as much privacy as she was likely to get for some time now. And it wasn’t like she’d _never_ touched herself, mostly out of curiosity, although never with an actual person occupying her thoughts before...

She bit her lip and closed her eyes, letting her back come to rest against the wall of the small cubicle while she hesitantly lifted one leg to prop it on the far wall and give herself a better range of movement. For a few long moments she stood like that, unable to believe quite what she was doing while also enjoying the way the water ran over her belly and between her legs. 

Then she took a deep breath and let her hand slide down, muffling the cry she let out with her other hand. 

When she came a few minutes later, trembling and shaking and wondering how she’d managed not to end up as a boneless puddle on the floor of the shower cubicle, she ignored the fact that she’d been thinking about the way Thexan looked when he smiled when she’d climaxed.


	26. Chapter 26

The journey to the Yavin sector passed without any significant upheavals- certainly no more surprise ambushes from lurking sleeper pods placed by his father months or even years ago. He didn’t know whether he found the silence unsettling, or a desperately needed relief. 

What surprised him was how much freedom he had aboard the _Doombringer_ , far more than he’d ever had aboard the _Illustrious_ \- he’d half expected to open his door after his lengthy diversion in the shower to find armed troopers standing to attention in the hallway, patiently explaining to him with false politeness that he was required to remain in his cabin for the duration of the voyage. 

Instead he was met by a single officer, apparently tasked with the dubious honour of waiting for his appearance, and who met him with the sort of cheerfulness that he’d been led to believe was impossible in the Empire. 

“Moff Pyron expresses his regret that he is not on hand to oversee the entirety of your visit with us, Your Highness,” she said with a very precise salute, “but he has asked me to see to your comfort in the meantime. May I escort you to the mess hall? Or perhaps a guided tour of our onboard facilities?”

He eyed her carefully, somewhat suspicious of her perky nature. “You would show an enemy of the Empire around a highly modified dreadnought as if it were an exhibit in a museum?”

“We have been given explicit instruction from the Lord Wrath that we are not to treat you as an enemy, but are instead to conduct ourselves towards you in a spirit of friendship.” He’d heard the exact same thing from Pyron earlier, and he found it just as suspicious now as he had then. “There are of course areas of the ship that I must politely request you do not attempt to visit, for your own safety of course, but otherwise you have the freedom to come and go as you please until we arrive in the Yavin sector.”

When he didn’t answer her straight away, she continued. “Perhaps I could show you to the bridge, where you can verify my statements with Moff Pyron?” she asked, apparently unconcerned with his doubting of her. 

“No, no, it’s...” Life could not get any more bizarre than this, apparently. “It’s fine,” he finished. “Can you tell me, have either of the Jedi made their way from their quarters yet?”

Had Ona’la locked herself away in her room after fleeing from him, or had she gone about her day as if nothing was amiss?

But the officer shook her head, her frizzy black hair just ever so slightly spilling out from under her cap. “The Battlemaster and Master Xo are still to make an appearance.”

“Which berth is the Battlemaster’s?” he asked, before he could berate himself over how needy that sounded. 

She gestured to a door on the opposite side of the hallway to his own. “The Battlemaster has taken that room, and Master Xo is in the berth beside yours. Is there a problem, Your Highness? If you require more privacy, we can see to having you moved to-”

“It’s fine,” he said, staring absently at Ona’la’s door. He wasn’t precisely sure how he was going to look her in the eye after moaning out her name in the grip of an orgasm, but he’d cross that bridge when he came to it. “It’s fine. The, uh- the mess hall is fine.”

She smiled broadly. “If you’ll follow me, Your Highness.”

If you’d asked him a year ago where he expected to find himself in the near future, he would never in a thousand years have answered ‘ _on an Imperial dreadnought_ ’ unless he assumed himself to be boarding it with hostile intent. He would certainly never have added ‘ _as an esteemed guest_ ’ or ‘ _travelling to meet peacefully with the Lord Wrath_ ’ and he would absolutely one hundred percent would never have guessed ‘ _in the company of the former Lord Wrath, and two Jedi, one of whom he had increasingly confusing feelings towards_ ’.

It was probably better if he stopped thinking that things could not get any more bizarre than they already were, and just accept that things were going to escalate. 

The officer escorting him kept a running commentary as she escorted him through the hallways of the ship, enthusiastically describing the fleet’s expansion under Darth Nox’s patronage for the last few years and the opportunities that had provided for further research and development of the Silencer weapon. He held his tongue and chose not to point out how utterly inefficient such a device had been against the Eternal Fleet when they’d struck out at Korriban, but to be fair they had not ever faced the _Doombringer_ itself, the prototype and easily the most powerful of the weaponised ships. 

Although in hindsight, knowing that his father and the Sith Emperor were one and the same, their ruthless annihilation of most Imperial defences made a lot more sense- technological superiority though they may have had, they’d also had unprecedented access to the inner workings of the sith because his father was the _ruler_ of the sith. 

It wasn’t so much an unfair advantage as it was suddenly realising that the entire game had been rigged from the outset for their victory, and it made the lingering sense of achievement he’d felt at the campaign he’d waged at Arcann’s side sour bitterly within him. 

The mess hall was... interesting, to say the least. It was moderately busy, with about a third of the tables in use; he wasn’t so caught up in his own thoughts that he missed the brief wave of apprehension that washed over the room at his appearance, that was covered with false attempts at normalcy a moment later. 

Despite the assurances of Moff Pyron and the officers, it was clear his presence was still a source of tension and unease for the numerous soldiers and technicians throughout the ship. 

He stood just inside the doorway, trying not to scowl. “How do... how does this work?” He asked, gesturing to the hall. “Is there a maître d’ or do I just... sit anywhere and wait for service?” 

For the first time, the officer hesitated, blinking in confusion; then she smiled brightly again, evidently trying to cover the lapse. “Nothing so fancy, I’m afraid Your Highness, although you are welcome to sit wherever you choose- all of our staff would be delighted to move for you, should you desire their seats-”

“I don’t want to take someone else’s seat,” he said irritably. “Just tell me how to get food.”

“Oh, well, you just take a tray from over there and join the queue, and choose what you’d like from the buffet- all of our food is prepared by fully trained chefs working to maximise flavour and nutritional-”

“What’s a buffet?” 

“It’s...” She hesitated more noticeably this time. “I apologise if I am misreading your intent, Your Highness, but is that a joke, perhaps? Do you require me to laugh?”

He prided himself on the fact that he didn’t groan out loud in embarrassment. “I- yes. Of course it’s a joke. Of course I know what a buffet is.”

He had no idea what a buffet was.

She smiled with the sort of relief he was painfully familiar with, the cringing respite of someone talking to a superior whom they fully expected to respond with violence at some point. He’d seen it regularly enough in The Spire, in the presence of his father and his siblings. 

It had even been directed at him more than once, as if they’d simply been waiting for the quiet prince to erupt, as if the silence was merely a warning of what was simply inevitable. 

“Shall I leave you to your meal, Your Highness, or do you require company? I would be glad to join you and answer any questions you have about the Silencer Weapons Program and the work of our patron, Darth Nox.”

He shook his head- the last thing he wanted right now was her forced cheerfulness while he was flummoxing his way through yet more normal mundanities that left him stymied. 

She left him to it, and he awkwardly selected a tray like she’d instructed him to do, very much aware of the bubble of space around him, as if the common soldiers were uneasy drawing closer to him. At least it meant he wasn’t crowded and hurried along while trying to work out how this _buffet_ system worked, trying not to wrinkle his nose at the sight of some of the trays that had clearly been out for some time, congealing slightly along the edges of the food. 

Nothing else for it. He’d eaten what was essentially prison food for the week prior to his trial, and the Republic hadn’t poisoned him. If the Wrath wanted to kill him by sabotaging his food, she was going to extraordinary lengths to achieve it. He picked the dishes that looked the least offensive, and hesitantly began to add them to his plate. 

He felt her presence a half second before she walked in the door, and so it was that he was watching as the blast doors slid open to allow Ona’la entrance to the mess hall; her appearance sparked a rather different reaction to his, with the mood in the room quite noticeably spiking upwards. There was even a vague smattering of applause from one or two of the technicians at a far table, and a half-hearted cheer, and she looked startled but shyly delighted by the praise, waving in their direction. 

She’d probably saved their families at one point or another, or thrown herself into harm’s way to see them to safety. She’d probably encountered them on any one of the dozens of worlds she’d fought across during the renewed hostilities after the end of the Cold War, and had spared their lives and escorted them back to their own encampments at great personal risk, and she probably already knew their names because that was what Ona’la _did_ , she made every single person she encountered feel important and valued and respected, and she made everyone better just for having met her, and she-

He looked away, feeling his cheeks flush. He couldn’t quite tell if he was feeling besotted or resentful, because while he admired her immensely for her capacity to extend such unfailing love to everyone she met, he also didn’t want to consider the fact that her kindness towards him was nothing more than just a part of who she was. 

Maybe it was petty, but he didn’t want her to act like that around him just because that’s how she acted with everyone- he wanted her to act like that around him because she was genuinely delighted to be in his company.

He realised how extraordinarily vain that sounded about half a second after the thought entered his head- delighted to be in his company? When all he’d done for the past several months was scowl and hiss and brood and act like nothing more than a petulant child? He was lucky she didn’t just roll her eyes in disgust every time she had to talk to him.

She looked over at him then, and from the way she stared he could have sworn she knew what was going on in his head, and that she knew what it was he’d done less than an hour earlier. The way her gaze skittered away from his almost nervously, her fingers toying with the hem of her sleeve- it was like she was reluctant to look at him. 

He tried not to scowl in frustration and looked back to the tray in his hands. She hadn’t eaten in some time either, and was obviously hungry if she’d sought out the mess hall the same as he had, so... so if he wanted to be her friend, and he wanted her to accept that he wasn’t upset about her _intruding_ on his space last night, then he- he could do something. Something that a friend would do. 

He wound his way back to the start of the queue and picked up a second tray, and went through the line again with far less reservations than he had the first time. By the time he was done, Ona’la’s tray was piled high with just about everything on display, and he spotted her seated at a table on the far side of the room, talking to several Imperial technicians who all made their excuses rather hastily when they saw him approaching. 

He climbed into the seat opposite her, sliding the more laden tray across the table towards her.

“I didn’t know what you could eat,” he said, gesturing to the tray and telling himself that his ears absolutely weren’t burning with embarrassment. “So I got everything just in case.”

It was a very abrupt way to say hello, no greeting whatsoever, but he was worried that if he tried for anything more formal, he’d blurt out something inconceivably mortifying.

Better to just open the conversation as if they’d just been speaking two minutes ago. Easier, at least. 

There was a faint touch of colour in her cheeks, and he couldn’t tell whether it was just the result of her elaborate make-up applications, or whether she was... blushing? “I- twi’leks can eat just about anything,” she said after a moment, and she sounded almost ashamed to be admitting that. “It comes in handy when food is scarce and you have to make do with- other things.” 

He had a feeling she was alluding to the mines again, and he didn’t know whether it was an invitation to ask about it or not. He opted for the safer path, and chose not to. “Just because you _can_ eat anything doesn’t mean you _want_ to,” he said, poking the tray closer with two fingers. “Do you ever actually ask for what you want, or do you just smile and reassure people that you’ll be fine and take whatever is given to you?”

“I don’t-” At the look he gave her, she most definitely flushed and looked down at her hands. “Alright, sometimes I don’t like to be an inconvenience to people.”

“All the time,” he muttered under his breath.

She cast him a withering look. “It doesn’t hurt me to make do with what is on hand, instead of causing extra work for people.” 

“Alright,” he said, poking at the food on his tray with his fork, resting his chin on his upraised fist. “But being selfless doesn’t mean that you can’t want something for yourself.”

Something flashed through her eyes, far too quick for him to pin down what it was, and he felt a surge of- frustration? Panic? _Longing?_ \- through the tenuous connection they shared before she cleared her throat and locked herself away again. Before he could even begin to puzzle out what that tiny insight meant, she pulled the tray towards her and picked up the fork, and he felt a rather juvenile rush of triumph at the sight of it. 

“Pasta,” she said quietly, almost quiet enough that he had to lean forward to hear her. “I like pasta.”

He’d been expecting something grand and extravagant, Alderaanian ice wines or Trammistan chocolate or the like. “Pasta?” he repeated dumbly. He glanced at the plate, and he had indeed scooped a heap of pasta onto one side of the tray. He tried not to feel smug about that. “Why pasta?” 

She didn’t look up, turning the fork slowly in one hand to twine the food around it. “My mother made a dish, I don’t remember it very well,” she said, “but it was made from the dried, flattened moss we farmed in the caverns beneath our village, big flat sheets that were all leathery and crunched if you left them out in the sun for too long. They cut it, into strips, and they boiled it with whatever precious spices we had, or if the rycrit were calving, they’d make cream with the milk.” She smiled sadly. “If it was a special occasion, they’d kill a rycrit and we’d all get chunks of it in the mix, like little hidden treasures.”

It sounded revolting, but he didn’t say that. “For something you don’t remember so well, you describe it fairly eloquently.”

She made a small noise, like it was supposed to be a laugh and hadn’t quite found the momentum; it made something flutter in his belly to hear it. “I looked it up,” she said, almost absently. “Years later, I mean, after the Jedi found me and it didn’t- hurt. So much. To think about home and to think about my family. I looked it up, to see if it was this amazing, magical dish that I remembered in my childhood.” Now she did laugh, and she sounded embarrassed. “It was not the nostalgic reunion I’d been hoping for.” 

“I can’t imagine _why_ ,” he said, hoping it sounded witty instead of just mean. 

“Hush, you,” she said, but her cheeks were darker than normal, and he could see her lekku moving over her shoulder. “Not all of us grew up with access to the finer things in life from day one.” 

It was meant as a light-hearted jab, but his good mood bled away at the reminder that she thought him so far above her as to not be able to relate to a simple story about her childhood. 

Ona’la didn’t seem to notice. “Things were never prosperous on Ryloth even in the best of times,” she continued, “and when I was a girl, it was never the best of times. The Blockade of the Hydian Way meant that the food shortages became food crises, and backwater villages on Ryloth were never anybody’s priority during rationing.”

She said it so lightly, as if it were ancient history and not something she’d suffered and endured in her own lifetime. “I’m sorry,” he said gruffly, not sure of what else he could say to that. 

She glanced up at him, the same sort of hesitance in her gaze that he’d seen once before- as if she was waiting for him to snatch the words back out of jest, as if she thought him to be mocking her. There was something vulnerable in that look, like she’d had to quietly endure a great deal of mockery and didn’t know whether to expect the same from him. “I mean it,” he said, trying to impart some magical level of sincerity that would make her believe him.

With a soft laugh, she looked away again, the vulnerability hidden. “I don’t need you to apologise for-”

“It’s not an apology,” he said. “I’m just... I am genuinely sorry you went through that.” When she looked at him again, he continued. “I wish things could have been different.”

It was an innocent enough statement, and it wasn’t until it was halfway out of his mouth that he realised it applied to a lot of things. He wished he could have met her in peace time, as equals and not enemies. He wished he could have taken away the pain she’d suffered as a child, first in poverty and then in slavery.

He wished she didn’t look at him like she was expecting him to hurt her heart. 

Ona’la hesitated for the longest time, and when she glanced up at him again there was a tentative smile on her face. “Thank you,” she said quietly. 

The moment lingered between them, and he felt himself hesitantly returning her smile; it was broken by the clatter of a dropped tray on the far side of the hall, the cautious bond whispering away like smoke. Thexan cleared his throat as he turned back to the rapidly cooling food on his own plate. “So... having to endure grey, claggy pasta with lumps of fatty meat in it as a child gave you an appreciation for real pasta, is that it?”

She laughed, actually laughed, and the sound sent a buzz of heat through him. “It’s the memory that’s important,” she said. “And it wasn’t grey. Well. Greenish-grey. It was sort of like kelp strips? If you’ve ever had that, I mean.” 

“How delightful.”

“I’ve had it since then,” she continued. “On Coruscant- I went to a cafe that was run by a twi’lek family, famous for being ‘ _a taste of Ryloth_ ’.”

He risked taking up a forkful of something that looked vaguely like a casserole- not that that was something he’d ever really had much experience with prior to the last few months, so for all he knew it could have been any number of bland imperial dishes eaten by people far, far below his rank- and was at least appreciative of the fact that it didn’t make him gag when he put it in his mouth. “I take it from your tone that it did not live up to your expectations,” he said around the mouthful. 

She shrugged, looking again like she was vaguely embarrassed at the telling. “It’s not the sort of dish you’re likely to see in fine dining galleries,” she said quietly, slowly twisting her own fork in the food but still not eating. “It’s... well, even when prepared well, it’s still an acquired taste.” 

He watched her closely, taking in the faint sensation of grief draped around her like a shroud. _Be her friend, by the heart of Scyva, and stop making it into a jest_. “If... if it’s distressing, we can talk about something else,” he said stiltedly. 

Ona’la glanced up at him, and smiled shyly. “It’s no matter,” she said, taking a large scoop of the food he’d piled on her plate for her and finally taking a bite; he was a little bewildered by the sense of smug relief he felt, seeing her eat. “It’s a rather uncomplicated tale that I wove into some woeful saga, when I should have known better. My mother made a pasta dish, it’s one of the only strong memories I have of her, so I like pasta- there, far more succinct and far less melodramatic.”

Thexan chewed thoughtfully for a moment, trying to gauge what answer he wanted to give. “I didn’t mind the melodramatic version,” he said. “I’m sorry if you thought I was teasing.”

She sucked in a breath softly. “Oh. Oh, no, I didn’t mind it.”

“Because that’s what friends do, is it not?” he asked, trying to say it as casually as possible. He forced himself to take another mouthful, even though it might as well have been sand for all the notice he took of what it was on his fork. He finally looked back at her once he’d finished chewing, reminding himself not to hold his breath waiting for her answer. “Tease one another, yes?”

She was looking at him with the most peculiar expression on her face, hovering somewhere between apprehension and delight. When he met her gaze, she smiled again, tentative and stars above but he wanted to say it was inviting, even if he knew it was nothing but his lust addled brain playing tricks on him. “That is what friends do, yes,” she agreed. “Are we- am I to take this that we are friends, then, Thexan?”

Because he absolutely did not want to think about the soft noises she made in her sleep, he said instead “I’ve never had a friend before. Well... other than Arcann, I mean, but that’s sort of...”

“Not the same,” she finished for him. She reached across the table and put her hand over his, and he tried not to tense at the contact. “I’d be honoured to be your friend, Thexan.” 

He didn’t know whether friends thought about each other in a less than platonic sense. Naked, for example. 

He didn’t ask. 

Instead he smiled. “Glad that’s settled then,” he said.

____

_I’d be honoured to be your friend._

Honestly, what was she _thinking_? Of _course_ she wanted to be his friend, she’d been trying to coax him out of his shell for months now, working against the anxiety and the depression and the numerous psychological scars he bore as a result of Vitiate’s abusive parenting techniques, and of course she was _thrilled_ that he’d finally responded to her gentle attempts at persuasion, but-

But why did it have to be _now_ , in the hours after she’d distractedly allowed herself to admit to feeling an attraction towards him, after she’d foolishly let herself seek physical pleasure thinking of his smile and his laughter, imagining his hand taking the place of hers in the privacy of the shower cubicle. This was not a complication she needed, or understood in the slightest, because she’d worked closely with so many people over her lifetime and never once come close to feeling something like _this_. She and Theron had run numerous operations together, including the time they’d spent on Yavin 4 as a part of the Coalition, and their enforced closeness had never made their friendship evolve into a different kind of intimacy. She and Kira had travelled together for years, without ever rousing confusing feelings in her for a woman she probably valued above all others. 

Even the Lady Amaara, as beautiful and endearing as she was and as stalwart as her friendship had been, had never roused anything in her beyond a sort of mild affection, something that had never encroached into the sort of feelings she was experiencing now for Thexan. 

So she was attracted to him, so what? Granted, she’d never been in this position before, and it was infuriatingly distracting, but she was more disciplined than these feelings. Her responsibilities to the Jedi and to the Republic were her primary objectives, but keeping Thexan safe was by far the most pressing duty she’d ever taken upon herself. She could focus. 

This attraction was fleeting, nothing more. She could work through it, and encourage their friendship to grow, because there was a better man hiding beneath those layered scars and she intended to help him find his way out. 

No more falling asleep in his arms, or imagining how he might whisper her name in a more intimate setting. 

They made good time to the Yavin sector, and as the _Doombringer_ dropped out of hyperspace many hours later, Ona’la found herself standing on the floor of one of the immense hangar bays yet again, staring through the force field and across the hundreds of thousands of kilometres that still separated them from their goal. 

The gas giant known as Yavin Prime, circled by over two dozen moons and satellites of varying sizes- one of which was their destination on this bizarre quest. As they drew closer, the massive dreadnought eating up the distance between them and the planet with ease, Ona’la found herself holding her breath as something came into view above the fourth moon.

A space station.

The station was immense, easily as big as Carrick Station tens of thousands of light years away in the Core Worlds, and Ona’la had a brief moment to wonder how exactly Lord Dara had the wherewithal to fund an operation of such scope. She had at least one fleet under her control, and a space station designed to support the presence of several thousand troops. Sith were not like Jedi, and regularly amassed their own fortune and power at the expense of the Empire itself, but this...

She felt movement at her side, and looked up to see Xolani standing beside her. “If memory serves me correctly,” she said quietly, so as not to draw attention to their conversation, “then I believe that Malgus had similar strengths around the time he made a play for power.”

Ona’la looked back to the view before them, the deep red of Yavin Prime dominating the vista and the silhouette of the space station stark before it. “I believe you are correct,” she said, just as quietly, trying to ignore the sense of dread in her belly. She wanted to trust that Lord Dara had only good intentions in asking them to meet with her, but... with Darth Nox and Darth Marr gone, she had so very few who could challenge her should she desire the greatest seat of power in the Empire. 

If she wanted Thexan as a trophy of her own, a sign of her own burgeoning strength that she could snatch him out from under the nose of Zakuul and the Republic both... 

She glanced to where Thexan stood at her other side, his expression unreadable as he surveyed the view in front of them. If the Wrath intended to claim Thexan as her own prisoner, she would not have him without a fight. 

_A bit late now for regrets, perhaps?_

Thexan must have felt her gaze on him, because he looked over at her, his face impassive. “Something wrong?” he asked, his tone giving nothing away. 

She wanted to ask him if he was nervous, if he was agitated. Was he frustrated with her, that she’d made the decision to come here without giving him the opportunity to decline? Did he resent being dragged to the Outer Rim, on nothing more than the promise of a Sith Lord?

“Nothing,” she said instead, because she didn’t even know where to start; if she let one question escape, the rest would follow, and she couldn’t allow her doubts to show at a time like this. She had to be stronger than that. She smiled, hoping it would soften the starkness of her answer. “Nothing more than normal for us, at least.”

That roused the hint of a smile in him, and he almost looked like he rolled his eyes as he turned back to the view. “How droll, having to acknowledge that we already have enough experience together to warrant this sort of moment as normal for us.”

She bit her lip briefly, fighting back a larger smile. “How ironic, having to acknowledge that we already have enough experience together to warrant an ‘ _us_ ’,” she said in response. 

He laughed softly, a short chuckle that nearly made her sigh for the force of the shiver that overtook her. “Touché,” he said quietly.

 _He already confessed to not having experienced friendship before_ , she reminded herself. _Do not dishonour his trust in you._

She was not quite as appraised of their situation as she would have liked- there were inevitably things that the Moff was holding in reserve from them- but as best as she understood things, they were to take a shuttle across to the space station, where the Lord Wrath’s representative planned to meet with them and escort them to her base of operations on the surface. Xolani had expressed her displeasure at not being permitted to use the _Defiance_ , but the Moff had managed to neatly circumvent that option by insisting the repairs were still in progress. 

So now they waited- two Jedi, an exiled prince, a muddle-headed astromech droid and-

-and she sighed at the last addition to their group, fighting the surge of frustration she felt at the appearance of Scourge beside Master Xo. Parrot chirped rapidly in alarm, clearly disconcerted by the pureblood, and rolled backwards until they bumped into Thexan’s leg. Ona’la saw him scowl, and she wasn’t sure whether the expression was intended for Scourge or the droid, until she saw him almost reluctantly pat Parrot on the top of their access panel. 

He was _reassuring_ a droid?

Ona’la steeled herself and turned back to Scourge, intending to ask him what he thought he was doing here, but Xolani apparently had less patience than she did. 

“I believe the Battlemaster was quite explicit in her desire not to have to endure your company again, Lord Scourge,” Xolani said, staring straight out at the view as if it pained her even to look at him. “Nor do I recall the invitation from the Lord Wrath being extended to involve you.”

His chuckle made Ona’la’s skin crawl, and she had to wonder how he made something as simple as laughter sound so belittling and scornful. “Fear not, my dear, I would not be so heartless as to leave you bereft of my company,” he said, a statement that seemed to be directed as much at her as it was at Xolani. She glanced down when she felt a slight pressure on her sleeve, and found Thexan had shifted closer to her, his hand on the back of her elbow as a show of... support? 

Goddess but her head was spinning from all this. 

“After all,” Scourge continued, “you did make such an ardent case about desiring to spend time in conversation with me.”

She felt Thexan still in confusion, which she found to be immensely relieving given that she had no idea what it was that Scourge was referring to either. Thankfully, Master Xo did not seem perplexed in the slightest by his strange assertions. 

“Oh, I see what’s happening here,” Xolani said calmly, her hands folded before her as they stood waiting for the shuttle to take them across to the station. “You think that because a woman spoke to you in an agitated manner, that she is incapable of controlling her hormones around you and hence spoke _irrationally_ because she is _attracted_ to you. Do I have the right of it?”

“Do not berate yourself, Master Xo, at least you recognise your failings early.”

She went almost inhumanly still. “Lord Scourge, I am _married_ ,” she said, her voice hovering only barely above glacial. “And more than that, I am a _lesbian_. Stars above, even beyond the simple fact that I find your pride as a sith repulsive, there is utterly nothing about your physical appearance that would ever stir more than discomfort in me. So if you thought to salvage your ego by explaining away my anger at you as simply misguided _attraction_ , then I sincerely hope that your precious male ego never recovers, because you deserve to be laughed at for such a self-inflated opinion of yourself.” 

Ona’la bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself from giggling at the look on Scourge’s face, but apparently Thexan had no such qualms; he snorted quite loudly, unconcerned about the filthy look the other man threw him, and when the moment had settled Ona’la couldn’t help but notice that he was standing closer to her. 

She found she didn’t mind. After their quiet banter a few minutes ago, and hearing him laugh so many times over the last few days, she was coming to appreciate how comforting it was to have someone she could share a joke with at her side again. 

Stars, but she missed Kira in that moment. 

Moff Pyron did not make an appearance to see them off, but she could not say she was entirely surprised by it- their little party had caused quite enough disruption for his fleet already, and loyalty to Lord Dara or not, having the Prince of Zakuul on board had to be a questionable security risk. 

When they had drawn within short flight range of the station, they were ushered onto the waiting shuttle, and they sat in tense silence; Ona’la couldn’t help but recall the last time she and Thexan had been together on a shuttle craft, being ferried down to Coruscant to face the anger of the Republic. It seemed like such a short time ago, in reality only a few weeks, and yet it seemed like she’d lived a lifetime or two in the meantime. 

She would hardly have recognised Thexan now, had she seen him then as he was now. 

As if sensing her thoughts, he looked up at her- they shared the same row of seats, unlike last time when he had sat alone, with a dozen blasters trained upon him. Now they sat together, the most unlikely of allies and the most peculiar of friends, and the brief- if somewhat strained- smile that he offered her was the strangest thing of all. 

When she moved her hand hesitantly towards his, he matched the gesture, lacing their fingers together and squeezing reassuringly as if she was the one in need of comfort, not him. 

The flight between the dreadnought and the station only took a few minutes, and when they disembarked on the sleek black floors of the hangar bay, it was with some surprise that Ona’la noted there was no armed escort waiting for them- only a single human man, dark haired and pale skinned and utterly unremarkable compared to what she’d been expecting.

The officer waited patiently to greet them as they disembarked, hands clasped before him in a relaxed stance, although something about his uniform was not quite right by Imperial standards. It took Ona’la a painfully long moment to realise that while the uniform itself could pass as Imperial, he wore no badge of rank on his chest- the expected silver bar with the red and blue coloured squares to indicate his standing was conspicuously absent, replaced only by a single gold bar. 

She shared a look with Xolani, who judging by her expression had likewise noticed the lack of distinguishing Imperial insignia. 

_I believe that Malgus had similar strengths around the time he made a play for power._

The words hung between them, unspoken and ominous. 

“Greetings, my Lords and Ladies,” he said, bowing respectfully as they drew near. “It is my very deepest honour to welcome you to Dilyara Station on behalf of the Lord Wrath, the Empire’s Hound, Darth Erras, slayer of the False Revan-”

“Get on with it,” Scourge growled.

“-the Lord Tahrin Dara herself,” the man finished, a look of vaguely exasperated resignation on his face as he glanced at Scourge before turning his attention back to the rest of them. “My name is Malavai Quinn, and I am the seneschal of this station and the overseer of Lord Dara’s interests in the greater galaxy.” 

“He’s a glorified accountant-”

Thexan made a strangled noise of frustration and half turned towards him. “Can I _please_ kill him?” he asked plaintively. “At _least_ let me cut out his vocal chords so we don’t have to listen to his insufferable commentary every two minutes.”

“Thexan,” Ona’la said softly, warningly, as she put her hand over his wrist. 

Quinn, however, didn’t seem to take the insult to heart in the slightest. “Lord Scourge, may I remind you _yet again_ that Lord Dara has repeatedly warned you against travelling to Yavin 4?” He hadn’t even flinched at the prospect of staring down an immortal assassin, which made Ona’la wonder what exactly it was that Lord Dara put her staff through to make them inured to such a confrontation; if anything, Quinn only sounded exasperated at having to repeat what sounded like a familiar argument. “While she appreciates your interest in her affairs and the implicit offer of support, it is not safe for you.”

 _Huh_. That was possibly the most polite way to insult someone she’d ever encountered. To not only imply that he knew the motivations of a man as inscrutable as Scourge, but also to suggest that his intentions were pure of heart and non-threatening while also insinuating he was unable to defend himself...

Perhaps she had underestimated the Wrath’s seneschal for just another Imperial lapdog. 

Scourge bristled at the insult, and Ona’la felt the temperature in the hangar bay drop noticeably; Xolani glanced over her shoulder and scowled at Scourge, before taking a step closer to Quinn. “This station,” she said, gesturing around them, “it belongs to the Wrath?”

“Of course, Master Jedi. The Lord Wrath is not without her own reserves.”

Ona’la had to wonder exactly how much Lord Dara had ‘ _in reserve_ ’ if owning a space station of this size was of no consequence to her. “Dilyara is a Mandalorian name, is it not?” Xolani continued, her gaze penetrating as she stared at Quinn. “Does she have the support of the Mandalore?”

Quinn didn’t even hesitate. “She has the support of several clans, as is the way of the Mandalorians, but she does not lead them, if that is what you ask.” He stood to the side, indicating towards the elevator. “Please- if you will follow me, I will answer what questions I am permitted to in a more comfortable environment.” 

“We cannot simply transfer to the moon from here?” 

He shook his head. “It is, unfortunately, very early morning local time, and as much as Lord Dara would not hesitate to greet you despite the hour, I find it more mollifying to ensure that she and her family have an adequate night’s sleep.” At the stunned silence that met his words, he smiled faintly. “She does not go out of her way to hide it overly, but she has two young children. It is not common knowledge.” 

Beside her, Thexan made a startled noise. “What?” he asked, looking genuinely perplexed. “We didn’t know that.”

Quinn looked almost painfully smug. “As I said, your Imperial Highness, she does not go out of her way to hide her personal life, but it is also not common knowledge.” Here he stopped for a moment to smile again, and there was something unnerving about it. “I pride myself on the latter.”

He informed them that the orbit would be conducive for them to arrive on the surface in another three hours, and offered in the meantime to show them the facilities the station had installed to support Lord Dara’s operations. 

She shared a look with Xolani again, and tried not to think of prey being coaxed stupidly into a cage.

It was only three hours, after all. 

____

Yavin 4 was almost unpleasantly warm, just as she remembered it, the air humid and cloying in a way that had made her glad she didn’t wear the armour plating that some Jedi warriors opted for. She didn’t even want to imagine the sweat that had to build up beneath the composite mesh jumpsuits beneath the armour, let alone the bulky armour itself. The sky to the west was awash with shades of pink and red, Yavin Prime itself dominating the skyline; the rest of the day was a pale, brittle blue, the atmosphere overpowered by the faint light emitted by the gas giant. 

Scourge, at the insistence of Quinn, had remained aboard the station, as had Parrot. The little astromech had been exceedingly distressed at having to stay behind, but Xolani was resolute- she wouldn’t risk their fragile circuitry to the damp humidity of the jungles and run the chance of having them wander off again in the pursuit of feathered companionship. She made it seem like a very practical and sensible decision, but there was an underlying anguish to her words that wasn’t so hard to puzzle out- she was paranoid at the prospect of losing yet another piece of the Sixth Line, the memories of her beloved wife and comrades and friends, because she’d already lost their ship in the space of a single journey. 

Ona’la wanted to reassure her that Parrot would be utterly fine with them, and that it would be completely safe for them to accompany them down to the moon, but this was a grief she had no say in. It was not her place to tell Xolani how to mourn what she had lost, or how to protect what remained of her life. 

So she held her tongue, and they had journeyed down to the surface in silence, just the three of them. 

Lord Dara had apparently made her claim on an old ruin perched high on one of the many mesas that loomed over the jungle floor. She did not recognise it, not this far from where the Coalition had staged their assault on the Revanite camps, but she didn’t expect to. What she _did_ recognise- and what _did_ surprise her- were the number of flags and banners draped across the front of the temple, from noble houses and governments and mercenary outfits and private corporations from all across the galaxy. It was a riot of colours and shapes, some fluttering raggedly in what faint breeze there was and some stiff and unyielding against the stone. 

Pride of place above the front entrance was the Imperial banner and the Sith insignia- right alongside the Republic’s banner and the Jedi colours. 

_How far did her reach extend?_

Thexan, who had been remarkably quiet on the flight, stood looking up at the temple and very noticeably shivered. 

She yearned to reach out to him, to hold him, but she restrained herself. “Are you alright?” she murmured quietly, falling into step beside him. 

He shook his head, as if he were trying to shake himself dry. “I... I don’t know,” he said, a perplexed and vaguely distressed look on his face. “Something doesn’t...”

“Feel right?” she finished for him, and he nodded stiffly, his jaw tense. She let her hand brush against the back of his as they walked, not sure how he would appreciate her taking his hand more openly in a public setting like this, but wanting the offer to be clear. “Yavin is a place with a long and bloody history with the dark side of the Force, and many of the greatest sith lords of the ages have found their way here at some point or another. The soil itself is imbued with the taint of their legacies.” 

“I- I don’t know if it’s that,” he said hesitantly, looking as if he was in actual pain. 

“Vitiate had a stronghold here for a long time, if this is the first time you’ve ever been exposed to his lingering influence-”

“No,” he said, shaking his head furiously as they finally reached the shallow stone steps leading up into the cavernous temple. “I felt him on Korriban, and it was different. It wasn’t... _this_.”

Now that they were close enough to the dim interior, Ona’la could see inside and see just how bizarrely well appointed this ancient complex was- there were paper lanterns hanging from the ceiling in strings, lending the great hall a peculiarly festive atmosphere. There were rich tapestries on the walls, as if they were in some Alderaanian noble house and not a crumbling ruin on a backwards moon, and as they took their first step over the threshold she noticed matching rugs scattered across the cobbled stone floor. There were elegant couches and side tables, as if the hall was used for entertaining, but there were also computer terminals everywhere, monitor screens taking up space on the walls where the tapestries did not. There were crates stacked everywhere, of various origins, bearing Imperial and Republic insignia both. 

In the centre of the hall was an immense holoprojector, with a slow spinning image of the known galaxy hovering over the room, with seats clustered almost hastily around it. There were very obvious piles of weaponry settled alongside what seemed to be baskets of linens, as if it was of no concern to have the laundry placed next to unarmed warheads. 

It was such a bizarre mix of domestic and military, completely unlike any sith fortress she’d ever encountered before. It was like Lord Dara couldn’t commit to having it be a home or a base of operations, and needed both at the same time. 

There was a handful of people in the hall as they came to a stop just beyond the threshold, and perhaps it was because it took her eyes a moment to adjust to the gloomier interior that she did not notice Lord Dara immediately. Perhaps it was because she looked so unlike a lord of the sith that her eyes skipped over her entirely. In any case, the quiet buzz of conversation in the hall died away as one figure in particular turned to greet them, alone and unarmed as she made her way through the clutter towards them. 

Beside her, Thexan had gone almost unnaturally still.

She did not look like the most famous warrior in the Sith Empire. She was short, and she was not curvy so much as chubby, and without her lightsabers strapped to her hips, there was nothing to suggest at a casual glance that she was one of the most powerful Force users in the galaxy. She wore a grey woollen tunic, sleeveless and belted at the waist, with black leather pants and boots and no ornamentation at all save for the silver buckle on her belt. Short black hair swept back from her face, unremarkable features but for the icy grey of her eyes and the rippled, scarred skin on the left side of her face. There was nothing about her that would have made you look twice had you passed her on the street.

But she _radiated_ power, cold and unrelenting, like standing beneath the moon on the tundras of Hoth on a cloudless night and feeling the immensity of the cold around you and the immensity of the stars above you. The weight of it, the sheer scope of it, was breathtaking. She carried no weapons because she _was_ a weapon, and even having met her before and spent several weeks fighting at her side in the fight against the False Revan, Ona’la was still hard pressed not to feel terrified of her. 

She came to a stop a few steps away from them, her hands clasped behind her back and her expression blank. The tension was so thick and oppressive that it was a wonder Ona’la could still breathe. 

Finally Lord Dara shifted her weight slightly, nodded her head in their direction. “Greetings,” she said, her voice quiet but carrying effortlessly despite it. “I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me.”

Ona’la swallowed down her nerves and offered her a broad smile. “We appreciate you approaching us with your concerns in the first place,” she said. “It was a very big gamble you took, trying to reach us in Republic space.”

Lord Dara looked at her for a long moment, as if assessing something, before finally bowing her head in acknowledgement. “Battlemaster,” she said, apparently a greeting. Her eyes moved on to Xolani. “Master Xo- or are you Commander Xo, now?”

“Master Xo is adequate, Lord Wrath,” Xolani said, and Ona’la was impressed with how calm she sounded as she spoke. Not a hint of a tremor in her voice. 

“Indeed,” Lord Dara said, her gaze already moving. When she finally settled on Thexan, Ona’la immediately got the impression that her presence and Xolani’s presence was negligible, that the Wrath had been completely unconcerned with whoever it was that accompanied Thexan, as long as they brought him to her. 

Goddess, had she offered him up like a rycrit for the slaughter? 

And then the most unnerving and unexpected thing of all happened- Lord Dara _smiled_.

“Hello, Thexan,” she said, her greeting far warmer towards him than it had been towards either of the Jedi women. “I’m glad to see you looking hale.”

Thexan, for his part, looked as if he’d seen a ghost. “You know me,” he said hoarsely, which in itself could have been a foolish question- he was one of the most famous men in the galaxy, of course she would know him. But the familiarity with which she’d greeted him implied that she did, indeed, know him personally. 

She bowed her head in acknowledgement. “I should certainly hope so. I’d like to think I would know my own brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DUN DUN DAAAAAAAA
> 
> It's been killing me holding onto that tidbit for so long


	27. Chapter 27

Just like that, Thexan felt his entire worldview shift sideways. There was a buzzing in his ears and he couldn’t quite focus his eyes properly, and he felt Ona’la’s hands on him- one on his elbow, as if she was holding him upright, and one on his cheek, and he thought she might have said his name, calling to him urgently and-

Someone laughed uproariously. 

That in itself was unexpected enough to jolt him out of the daze he was in- he had _not_ swooned, damn it- and he was torn between confused fury that someone would dare to laugh at him, and bewilderment when he realised that it was not just Ona’la who had stepped in close to defend him. Xolani was right behind him, the older woman’s face set like stone as she stared frostily at the Wrath, her hand on her lightsaber hilt as if daring them to give her a reason to draw it. 

The laughter continued, and out of the gloom of the hall a rather large man appeared, head and shoulders taller than Lord Dara and a good solid block of an individual; he was not muscular so much as just stocky, a figurative wall of brown skin and bulging muscles. It was from him that the laughter emanated, and as Thexan stared, he stepped up behind Lord Dara- _his sister?_ \- and slapped her soundly on the back. 

He expected Lord Dara to respond to the blow with violence of her own, but she only looked sideways at the giant man at her elbow, a wry expression on her face. 

“You melodramatic little diva,” he drawled loudly, his accent as crude and rough as Lord Dara’s was refined and precise. “Can you not just say hello like us poor normal folk?” 

She looked back to them, and her features were already politely blank again, as if she’d never smiled at all. “This is Lieutenant Gabriel Pierce of the Imperial Black Ops division,” she said mildly. “I apologise for his interruption.” 

“She’d promise it ain’t gonna happen again, but she knows me too well,” Pierce said, beaming almost proudly. “Stars, love, could you have been more ominous- should I fetch you a cape or somethin’?”

Thexan was shaking his head over and over, as if denial could make the situation more tolerable; but even as he tried, he could feel it in his bones. The connection, the tug of someone like him in the vicinity, like a welcome and a warning at the same time. It felt like the bond he'd shared with Arcann, only fainter and more complicated. Closer to what he felt with Vaylin.

His sister. 

“No,” he heard himself saying, almost hoarsely. “No, that- you must be mistaken.”

Lord Dara arched an elegant eyebrow. “Must I?” she said. 

Beside her, Pierce guffawed again. “I'm calling Vette,” he said, “she's gonna be right fired up that she missed you carrying on like a little queen.” 

There was a high pitched little noise- a child?- and something small came darting out of the cover of a couch and lunged for Pierce’s shin, giggling and shrieking. A little girl. A little girl with soft brown skin and dark curls and silvery grey eyes- 

_She has two young children. It is not common knowledge._

“No,” he whispered, even as the implications of those words began to clarify before him. Lord Dara. His sister. Which made this small human being his niece. “No, no-”

“Breathe, Thexan,” Ona'la said, quiet but firm as she kept her arm around his waist to help him stay upright. Wait, when had she done that? “It's alright, you're alright, just breathe for me. Can you do that with me?”

It was almost routine by now, and he followed her voice out of the twisting labyrinth of the panic attack, panting and shaking as she encouraged him softly, never once hesitating to praise him as he improved. 

“You cannot be my sister,” he managed after a moment, directing the statement in Lord Dara’s direction. There was a second child, by the heart of Scyva there was a _second one_ now, sitting on the floor at her feet and gumming absently on a tiny clenched fist. The girl was still babbling wordlessly as she clung to the leg of the man who was presumably her father, and the boy watched him with wide, solemn grey eyes. 

_A nephew?_

“You were an Imperial experiment,” he said, his voice shaking. “How can we be siblings if I was born naturally on the far side of the galaxy while you were crafted in a laboratory?”

The humour disappeared from Pierce’s expression in an instant, and he made as if to step forward but Lord Dara raised a hand, stopping him without a word. “What do you suppose I was crafted _from_ , Thexan?” she asked patiently. 

“Do you take me for an idiot? It’s hardly a secret that Vitiate kept DNA samples of Darth Revan to try and replicate her control of the Force.”

A flicker of dismay crossed over her face and she closed her eyes in what could almost pass as a wince. “Don’t say her-”

There was a lurching moment of vertigo, as if the temple had suddenly plunged into an abyss, and then it was gone. Instead, there was the faint, glowing outline of a person standing beside Lord Dara. 

“-name,” Lord Dara finished with a resigned sigh. 

The figure looked vaguely female, her features hard to make out in the swirling inconsistencies of the mist that made up her form. She snarled something in a language he did not recognise, the words harsh and violent in his skull. 

Lord Dara responded in the same language, the sounds not quiet so guttural when spoken by a living voice, and when the ghost did not respond she said more warningly “ _Mother_.”

There was an abrupt change in the air pressure, and nearly all of them put their hands up to their ears with a wince; the twins let out a wail in tandem, both of them pressing fat little fists to the sides of their heads as their lips trembled with confused panic. Pierce dropped to one knee to try and comfort then, grimacing as he gathered them into his arms instead of covering his own ears. 

The Force apparition screeched a word he didn’t recognise, and then vanished, the furniture in the room rattling violently at her departure. Lord Dara was the first to recover her senses, her expression resigned in a manner that implied she was well and truly accustomed to this sort of behaviour. “Battlemaster,” she asked mildly, directing her attention to Ona’la as she moved over to the large holoprojector that sat in the centre of the hall, “can I assume that Lord Scourge travelled with you?” 

He realised he was clinging to Ona’la perhaps a little tighter than necessary when he felt her sharp intake of breath, her body pressed firmly against his. “I- yes? Well, he travelled with the _Doombringer_ , rather than with us, but he remained on the orbital station...”

Lord Dara was already nodding as she activated the comm. “Malavai?”

Her seneschal appeared on the display with barely a moment’s hesitation. “My lord?” 

“Order an immediate evacuation of the facility,” she said calmly, if somewhat wearily, “and get yourself to an evacuation pod too. If the _Doombringer_ can take on more hands for a day or two that would be appreciated, otherwise we’ll divide our people between the mesa and the Coalition camp.”

“I- my lord?”

“My mother is visiting an old friend.”

In the background of the holocall, there was a phenomenal explosion, and the captain was nearly blown off his feet, staggering out of the frame for a few seconds. When he came back into view, his hair was askew and his eyes were wide with panic, but his voice was calm- if perhaps a little strained. “As you say, my lord.”

His image disappeared from the projector, and Lord Dara- Tahrin? It seemed very formal to call his... the woman who claimed to be his sister by her title instead of her name- gritted her teeth briefly, the only noticeable reaction to what otherwise had to be an intensely stressful situation. She keyed in a few commands on the console in front of her, and then began speaking rapidly in the same tongue she’d snapped at the apparition in. 

“She’s speaking Mando’a,” Ona’la said quietly, so as not to interrupt. She still had her arm around his waist, and he found he wasn’t really that interested in pulling away at this point. If anything he just wanted to hide his face in the curve of her neck, to breathe her in and pretend that the world stopped beyond the safety of her arms. “It’s a little archaic, some of the sentence structures are a little convoluted by modern standards, the syntax has obviously evolved in the last few centuries, but it’s definitely Mando’a.”

“You speak Mando’a?”

She glanced at him. “I speak seven languages, and can read nine. Twi’lek neurophysiology- I can retain things with more clarity, and faster, than most other species. It helps significantly with learning languages.”

That seemed like something he should have known about her. 

“What is she saying?” Xolani asked, surprising him; he’d forgotten she was standing right behind him, as if the two women were shielding him from the Wrath. Ona’la immediately leaping to his protection he understood, and was accustomed to, but Master Xo too? 

“She’s ordering her- I mean, she’s ordering Revan to stand down,” Ona’la said, stammering when she went to say the word ‘ _mother_ ’. “She’s telling her to leave her- vendetta? I think? And that if she damages the station any further she’ll cut off her access to the two... the two?”

“The twins,” Xolani offered, her gaze going to the two wailing toddlers in Pierce’s arms. They, at least, were as unimpressed with their... _grandmother_ , as the rest of them.

Lord Dara stopped speaking rather abruptly, pressing another button that cut off the sounds of what was presumably Revan’s less than friendly encounter with Scourge on the station above them. The sharp halt to the explosions and inhuman screeches almost made his ears ache. 

The silence that fell over the hall was almost ominous, and for a moment Lord Dara seemed to be lost in her own thoughts, leaning heavily on the holoprojector. Then, as soon as the thought had passed through his head, she breathed out sharply through her nose and straightened, turning back towards them. 

“I apologise that you had to see that,” she said curtly, the cold mask back in place. “I had instructed her to stay away for the duration of your visit- I am disappointed she chose to defy me.” 

Xolani made a noise of disbelief. “You command the whims of a Force ghost?” she asked incredulously. “You expect us to believe that?” 

“If I could command her obedience, I imagine that would have been a far more intimidating fashion by which to introduce myself, rather than the spectacle we just witnessed,” Lord Dara said. “As it is, she has less of an attention span than my children, and less patience again than that. I can no more command her than I can move the stars in the sky.” 

There was another surge of violent rattling, as if they were under threat of an earthquake, and then the ghostly outline was standing beside Tahrin again, as if she had always been there. 

“Your station is fine,” she said, her features hard to read but her tone rather snippy. Her accent, now that she was speaking in Basic, was peculiarly hard to place.

“You and I have different definitions of _fine_ , mother,” Tahrin said tersely. “What did you do with Scourge?” 

She sniffed, as if the question was beneath her. “He’s alive.”

Beside him, Thexan felt Ona’la relax, and he resisted the urge to scowl at the fact that she felt relief that Scourge had not been killed. 

The predatory smile the ghost made a moment later, far too many teeth to be human, made them all tense uneasily. “But not for lack of trying,” she said, her mouth too wide, like a nexu hiding behind a human face. “He is immortal, after all.” 

“ _Mother_ ,” Tahrin snapped irritably, and the ghost hissed at her before vanishing in a whisp of smoke. For a moment the ugly silence returned, broken only by the wobbly tears of the twins, who were only slowly calming down after Revan’s theatrics. The quieter one, the young boy, was still rubbing tearfully at his ears, while the girl was fussing loudly, with her noises increasing whenever she noticed someone watching her. 

Tahrin’s expression was blank again by the time she turned back to them.

“The individual known as Darth Revan was used as my genetic template, this much is true,” she said, as mildly as if she were discussing the weather. As if they hadn’t just witnessed the lingering remnants of Revan throw a violent tantrum. “I am, however, not a clone- Revan was too unpredictable, too wild, even when she was a Jedi, for Vitiate to adequately control her. He wanted her power, but he also wanted obedience. Utter lack of ambition. Unquestioning loyalty.”

“Not the hallmarks of a sith,” Xolani said pointedly. 

Tahrin inclined her head. “Just so,” she agreed. “To that end, it required the input of a second parent, to counteract Revan’s influence.”

“Vitiate,” Ona’la said softly, and Thexan wasn’t sure if he wanted to throw up or pass out. 

“Vitiate,” Tahrin said, confirming what hadn’t been a question. “Which, given that Valkorion appears to have been just another of his numerous forms, leads me to the conclusion that Thexan and I are half-siblings.” Her gaze fell on him again, and he felt the weight of it, enough that he thought she might crush him. “And with Thexan’s agreement of course, I believe the two of us have numerous things to discuss in private.” 

____

He didn’t want to go with her. Well, he _did_ , he was as intrigued as he was horrified, but he didn’t want to go with her. The implications of it all, the immensity... part of him had still been in denial about his father, buried deep within him, a pathetic kernel of blind hope that this was all simply a bad dream, and that his father was unpleasant and cruel but certainly not an immortal monster. 

He didn’t want that to be his legacy. He didn’t want to know that that _creature_ had sired him, so he’d held tight to a sliver of desperate, impossible faith. 

He didn’t want to be a monster’s son. 

But he went with Lord Dara anyway. 

She led him away from the main hall- away from Ona’la- and through a smaller gallery that she appeared to have converted to some sort of library, or archive, and he recognised sith and jedi artefacts both amongst the collection lining the walls. Compared to the main hall, it was remarkably well organised, and clearly well cared for- the data archives all looked freshly maintained and polished, and all of the artefacts were behind subtle forcefields to discourage curious fingers. The triumph of the collection was undoubtedly the great holocron spinning slowly in the centre of the chamber, wider across than he was tall by at least half again; such a relic was of utterly incalculable value, the knowledge and the history it contained the sort of things that wars were fought over. 

Clearly aware of his curiosity, she called back over her shoulder “I’ve been working on my collection for some years now. Which, as it turned out, worked very much in my favour given that Korriban never had a chance to recover between the Revanite attacks and your invasion, and I was able to retrieve a great number of priceless historical items that would otherwise have been lost during your conquest.”

He felt as if it was a snide jab at him, as if he were somehow responsible for the Sith losing their heritage twice over, and he opened his mouth to say as much.

She pre-empted him. “Admittedly it feels selfish to say that your invasion worked in my favour as well, because nobody had the opportunity to take a thorough catalogue of the libraries at the Academy between one attack and the other.” She brushed her hand over an access panel, and a door slid open to allow them entry to a pleasant little balcony, far removed from the rest of the complex and well out of earshot of anyone who might have attempted to eavesdrop. 

“You stole from your own people?” he asked, coming down the steps to stand beside her as she stared out over the vast jungle canopy. There were benches on the balcony, the sort one might see in an elegant city park, but she did not take a seat, nor did she offer one to him. 

So he stayed on his feet. He would not look weak before her. 

“I prefer to think of it as voluntary short-term curatorship,” she said without even hesitating. She turned her head to face him, her grey eyes stark in their blankness. She wasn’t as terrifyingly glacial in person as he might have suspected, but she was almost unsettlingly unreadable. “The Sith are dying, Thexan, and they have been for some time. Perhaps if we had not tied all of our fortunes to the whims of an immortal tyrant, we might have stood a chance, but...”

He swallowed uncomfortably. “If you are trying to warn me about my father, I’m afraid you’re very late to that conversation,” he said. “Or, I suppose... our father?”

She nodded, as if she didn’t find the concept earth-shattering in the slightest. “Our father, yes,” she said. “Or an approximation of a shared father at least, given that Vitiate discarded his original physical form some time ago and you at the very least are the biological child of one of his physical forms, whereas I have no way of knowing to what extent Vitiate was involved in my creation.”

Thexan closed his eyes, not quite able to grasp the immensity of the conversation he was having with this woman, one of the most powerful sith in the galaxy and his... sister. “You make it sound so clinical,” he said. 

“That’s all it was to me. My entire existence was a series of clinical trials, to determine my suitability as his servant.” She breathed out sharply through her nose, and he got the impression that was an explosive gesture by her standards. “What records I was able to recover are inconsistent. I cannot say if I bear any biological relation to you, or if Vitiate crafted me out of sith alchemy, and I bear his psychic imprint if not his physical traits.”

He opened his eyes again and glanced over at her. The shape of her face was wrong, her cheekbones higher and her chin not quite as pronounced. The nose though, he recognised the nose, and the way she held herself was unmistakeable. 

Her eyes were the giveaway. Cold and grey and so much like Arcann’s eyes that it made the scar across his stomach ache. The scars on the left side of her face, though not a birthright, made him think only of Arcann writhing in pain on the red sands of Korriban, his face ruined in the same attack that had severed his arm.

She felt like home. 

“Who knows indeed,” he said, looking away before he made himself miserable- or, at least, more miserable than he already was. In the space of a few words, she’d upended his entire world, almost as much as Ona’la had when she’d said those fateful words on the _Illustrious- that was the death of Vitiate._

He was beginning to suspect that he was regularly going to be surprised by the revelations people kept foisting on him in regards to his father- he was immortal, he was a sith, he was a tyrant, he was a world-eater... and now apparently also sire to other significant individuals in the galaxy. 

“How many?” he asked stiltedly, unable to bring himself to ask the question in full.

Lord Dara- _Tahrin_ , he corrected himself- did not seem to need the question in full to know what he meant. “Only two that survived,” she said, and he could tell it pained her to say it. “There are records that indicate there were others prior to myself and the individual who believed himself to be Revan, but they were... unsuccessful.” 

He didn’t want to ask what that meant; he could imagine, and that was bad enough. 

“ _Why?_ ”

She glanced at him, assessing. “I do not think one can adequately comprehend the motivations of a creature like Vitiate,” she said carefully, “but, for my part, I do know that myself and the others were always intended to replace Lord Scourge as the Wrath. Vitiate had long known of his treachery and sought to replace him with a far more malleable servant, but his methods were so extreme that the first however-many subjects had no chance of survival. The one who thought himself to be Revan was the closest thing they’d had to success in the hundreds of years they’d been experimenting.”

He didn’t like the weight of her gaze. “But he didn’t become the Wrath,” he said, “you did.” 

“That is correct.”

When she didn’t elaborate, he made a noise of frustration, gesturing for her to go on. She pursed her lips slightly, as if irritated at his impatience. “The- _my brother_ , I should say, was the closest they came to success, but he was not quite... right. In the end, in his confusion after years of training and imprisonment, he convinced himself that he was Revan, and reached out to the Republic under that assumption.” She breathed out slowly. “I’m sure you’ve heard the rest.” 

“So he went mad and defected, and that left you?” 

There was something flat in her eyes when she looked at him. “He did not _go mad_ , Thexan, I’d think you of all people could appreciate the toll Vitiate’s attention can take on one’s mental faculties. He was subjected to years of torture and abuse, and crafted coping mechanisms to survive.”

He couldn’t help the unkind smirk that came to his face. “His coping methods were attempted genocide? I’d say he took after Vitiate more than he could have hoped.”

Despite the warm humidity of the day, he felt the temperature plummet abruptly, and when he looked back at Tahrin there was frost on the stone beneath her boots, and the air around her was so chilled that she breathed out small clouds. “Pray tell, your Highness,” she said quietly, and there was no mistaking the fact that he was in the presence of a predator, “what precisely were you doing on your ill-fated jaunt into the Core Worlds? Because I daresay you were not looking to foster diplomatic relations-”

“I was _not_ trying to conduct an act of genocide!” 

She breathed out sharply, the sound almost a growl- he felt it, even if she didn’t vocalize it, he felt the snarl in his flesh, the same way one might hear a ravenous creature howling in the darkness of the night, distant and ominous. He felt a shiver run down his spine. 

Then the moment was gone, as abruptly as it had arisen, and Tahrin was calm again, the day warm and stickily humid and no trace of her momentary lapse into icy, terrifying anger. 

She cleared her throat. “Are you at all familiar with the Rakata?”

The abrupt change of conversation startled him, but he supposed it wasn’t entirely surprising; he couldn’t blame her for wanting to turn the talk away from the tragedy of her... brother. “The Infinite Empire- the last great galactic power prior to the formation of the Jedi, and the Republic.” He glanced at her. “Why do you ask?”

“To see if I needed to give you a lesson in basic history before moving on to more complex topics.”

He felt his shoulders tense. “I can assure you, my education-” 

“Was ruthlessly extensive, and relied upon absurdly detailed repetition of facts to prove adequate memorization of data, in all myriad of obscure topics, languages and skills,” she finished for him. She looked over at him, a flicker of a smile upon her lips that passed as quickly as it had appeared. “Don’t look so surprised, Thexan- I’d wager that our childhoods were far more similar than either of us realise.” 

He had no answer for that, so he shrugged. 

That strange quirk to her lips appeared again, and he was beginning to suspect that was her version of smiling. “The Rakata, amongst their various atrocities against the galaxy, used to take the most powerful of Force users they could find, usually as children. Species and gender was of no consequence to them- as long as they were connected to the Force, they were taken for their trials.”

“Trials?” he asked, unable to help himself. 

“Combat. Psychological torture. Endurance training. Languages. Extensive focus on their Force abilities, but with just as much focus on their ability to fight without the Force. Does that sound familiar?”

He crossed his arms across his chest, trying to ignore the gnawing hole in him. “I... suppose,” he said hesitantly. 

“One of the most important factors in their training was a strong emphasis on sensing Force abilities in others, and this skill was prized above all others amongst the children. They were pitted against each other year after year after year, until only the strongest remained- a blank slate, a weapon honed to a killing edge. These slaves were the most prized possessions of the Rakata, and they were known to go to war amongst themselves to acquire them from one another.” 

Thexan put a hand out to steady himself on the balcony railing. “The Rakata have been gone for tens of thousands of years,” he said with a snarl, because that was an easier answer than to accept what she was building towards. 

“Untrue- their descendants have regressed, true, but the biological species known as the Rakata endures. And you know as well as I do that the galaxy as we know it is built upon the bones of their society, and that a great deal of technology that we take for granted has come down to us through the ages from them.”

He closed his eyes. “What are you getting at, Wrath?”

“You are quite within your rights to call me Tahrin- we are siblings, are we not?” She sounded vaguely amused. “The Rakata called these slaves ‘ _Force Hounds_ ’ and they were bred for one purpose- to hunt.”

He didn’t want to ask. “Hunt what?” 

“Why, other Force users of course,” she said. “During the Rakatan campaigns against a population, one of their first steps was to send in their Hounds to seek out and neutralise any native Force users who might make the invasion more difficult. As any sort of planetary occupation continued, they were used to hunt down and destroy any pockets of resistance and any Force users attempting to hide amongst the civilian population.” 

The scar across his stomach burned, and it was hard to breathe. “Why are you telling me this?” he asked hoarsely. 

“What was your primary purpose in the initial invasion by Zakuul, Thexan?” 

“But- no, it only makes sense that Arcann and I dealt with the leaders amongst the Force users, we were the most powerful-”

“What was your _primary purpose_ in the initial invasion by Zakuul, Thexan?” Tahrin repeated, slower this time and with more emphasis. 

_Neutralise the most powerful Force users and present them or their weapons as trophies to his father._ “Please don’t make me say it.”

She stopped, and he had never been more grateful in his life. For a long, painful moment, silence hung between them, and then he heard her take a quiet breath. “It came to my attention approximately a year ago,” she said softly. “I was- _am_ \- not a child of biological origins, so I suspect having known since infancy that I was a _project_ rather than a _daughter_ made it easier to endure the revelation.”

When he didn’t speak, she continued. “I also suspect that, once Vitiate deemed the procedure to be a success, he thought it acceptable to turn the technique upon his own children.”

“How can you speak of this so candidly?” he asked, his voice raw. 

He heard her sigh. “I actually find the topic immensely distressing, but a lifetime of abusive training does not evaporate simply because I will it so,” she said. “I do not... respond well, or at all, to a great deal of emotional stimulus. There are some aspects of the human experience that leave me cold, and others that leave me bewildered. This, I suppose, is one of them- I can logically acknowledge what was done to me, process it and move on. Emotionally, I...” She breathed out sharply through her nose. “I lack the tools to do so.”

Thexan opened his eyes, turning his head slightly to look at her. She hadn’t moved at all- still standing in a posture that would probably be considered parade rest rather than actually relaxed, her feet spread wide and her hands clasped behind her back. “The files we were given on you,” he said slowly, “you are... older than me?”

“I believe so. I have no definitive record of my year of creation, but I believe that I might be approximately three years your senior.”

His hands dug in a little harder to the balcony railing. “So you were only three, and you think Vitiate decided your training was suitable to test on others?” _On me._

“Indeed. My earliest memory is of some sort of combat training, or Force control. I remember it because my tutor struck me until I bled.”

He winced. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

“Whyever for? I am hardly the oldest, or only individual to have undergone such trials. I’m assuming you were subjected to precisely the same sort of regimen, after all.”

“I- yes,” he said hesitantly. “But I always had Arcann. And- for a brief time, anyway- I had my mother, and Vaylin. And father was...” He paused for a long time, and she did not push him for further conversation. “There are times when I do truly believe that Valkorion, the man I knew as my father, was not entirely Vitiate. I think, sometimes...”

She did not berate him for his desperate denial of the truth, even after all this time. “It is entirely possible,” she said gently, glancing over at him with solemn eyes. Stars, but the stark grey of her eyes reminded him so badly of Arcann that it hurt. “Vitiate discarded his physical form centuries ago, and his control of others- whether willing or forceful- does not negate the fact that there was or is another soul within the body.”

“So you agree that my father was probably a prisoner in his own body, to an ancient evil.”

“I think that if it brings you comfort to remember the moments when his approval and his presence made you happy, it is not such a bad thing.” She looked a little mournful. “The abuse that occurs does not rule out the moments of joy we found, and we are not weak to cling to them if they give us the strength to move on, and grow into who we were meant to be.”

They lapsed into silence, and Thexan did his best to wipe the tears burning fiercely at his eyes as discreetly as possible. Tahrin, Scyva bless her, very pointedly pretended not to notice. After a minute or two, she cleared her throat almost awkwardly, not looking at him as she continued. 

“It is not an easy burden to carry,” she said quietly, “and I will not ask you to pretend otherwise. I know I have the benefit of several years to have come to terms with the news, and I was fortunate enough to have a... support network, at the time.”

Thexan huffed out a humourless laugh. “That lieutenant- is he your husband?” 

She did actually smile again, the expression clearly unpractised and awkward for her. “Nothing of the sort, thank goodness,” she said. “Pierce and I have an understanding, and he has been a fine father for my children. I appreciate his support and his company.” 

_For my children._ “So, those two infants, they are...?”

“Constance and Vaane,” she supplied. “You would be welcome to spend time with them, of course, but if you desire not to foster a relationship with them at this point, I will understand.”

He closed his eyes again, pretended that there weren’t more tears there. “I- thank you,” he said gruffly, relieved at least that she hadn’t foisted the children onto him and demand that he immediately take on the role of doting uncle. _Uncle_. Izax forfend, he was an uncle. Tiny human beings who would look on him without judgement, without knowing the vast atrocities that he had committed across the galaxy at his father’s whims, and who would in all probability love him in that odd way that children loved- wholeheartedly and brimming with fascination. “I don’t have a great deal of experience with children.”

The noise she made was clearly her version of a chuckle, brief and quiet. “Believe me, Thexan, you at least had the benefit of siblings. I had never even encountered an infant before I found myself thrust into motherhood.” She sighed. “Gabriel does a far better job with parenting than I do, and I do question daily whether they might not have been better off without me.” 

Thexan cleared his throat, sniffing as if it were simply the pollen in the air making him watery-eyed and not at all the overwhelming nature of their conversation. “But you don’t leave,” he said, wincing at the way his voice wavered slightly. 

Tahrin shook her head. “I do not,” she said, “because if there is one thing I have promised, it is that my children will have a better life than I did, and my absence is not of greater benefit to them than my ability to protect them.” 

“Huh.”

“You have thoughts on the matter?”

“Nothing, it’s just...” He shrugged, his arms hugged around himself as if to shield him from any further pain. “My mother made the other choice.”

He could feel her eyes on him, but he didn’t want to look to see if there was anything in that blank gaze; he didn’t know what would be worse, honestly. The emotionless mask that told him exactly how much she’d suffered under her- _their_ \- father’s directives, or to see sympathy in her face. 

After a long moment she said quietly “It could be worse. At least your mother is not a brattish undead apparition with anger management issues and a god complex.”

He laughed, but there was no humour in the sound. “No, just my father, apparently.” They lapsed into silence again, until the questions were too much for him to contain. “Did you... know him? Vitiate, I mean.” 

He hadn’t needed to qualify it; she would have known who he meant without it. He didn’t know why he felt the need to say his name.

Tahrin breathed out slowly. “I met him several times,” she said softly. “If you’re asking whether I knew... not until just before Ziost.” 

“He knew that you knew?”

“Oh yes,” she said, making that same sound again that seemed to be her approximation of a chuckle. “He toyed with me. Mocked me when I begged him to stop the slaughter. I felt his delight as he set his drones to mob me, after I’d spent months already being stalked relentlessly by his assassin droids.”

He remembered Arcann’s growing paranoia about Valkorion, and the staggering horror growing in his belly as he’d realised their father meant to kill his beloved brother. 

He wondered what it would have been like trying to endure that alone, like she had done. She had survived it for _decades_ , no supportive siblings to uphold her when the trials were too great, no silent servants to watch over her and keep her from going mad with the solitude.

“He made sure I felt it, too,” she continued, unaware of his inner thoughts. “When Ziost died. It is one thing to witness the death of a world, the bleeding, gaping wound in the Force where a million lives suddenly ceased existing... it is quite another thing entirely to feel _revitalized_ by it, to full bloated and satiated on the essence of so many...”

Thexan watched her, but her mask did not falter even for a moment. 

“It is at once the most abhorrent thing you can imagine, and the most invigorating thing you could ever dream of experiencing,” she said quietly. “He made sure that I felt it, that I shared that moment with him, and I will never, _ever_ feel clean again.”

He tried to think of what Ona’la might say to someone with such a horrifying confession, wincing even as the answer came to him. “Do you... need a hug?” he asked awkwardly. 

Tahrin’s response was immediate, and perhaps the most animated she’d been since his arrival. “ _No_ ,” she said quickly, the word almost snapping out of her; she rounded on him, her eyes wide and slightly wild. “No, I- I do not... need a _hug_.”

If he wished hard enough, perhaps a giant winged beast would swoop out of the jungle and carry him off to eat him and free him from his embarrassment. “Ah.”

“No, Thexan, I-” She clenched her jaw very obviously, as if she was fighting herself; her fingers were quite pointedly splayed at her sides, as if she was refusing to let them curl into fists. “I do not like people touching me,” she finally said, each word stilted and cumbersome, as if it was her first attempt at speaking the language. “I- appreciate. That you would- offer.”

That mollified him slightly. “Oh,” he said, for want of anything else to say. “I- you’re welcome.”

“Were you offering because you need a hug?”

He blinked. “What? I- no, I’m fine-”

“Because I could fetch someone,” she said, clearly pained at the discussion. “To hug you, I mean.”

“It’s fine,” he blurted, horrified to find his cheeks burning. “I- I don’t like to be touched. Either, I mean.”

She nodded, apparently accepting that, but he could feel the relief washing off of her in silent waves. Then she quietly cleared her throat. “You didn’t seem to have a problem with the _Battlemaster_ touching you,” she said softly, a question and a- by the heart of Scyva, was she _teasing_ him? 

Ignoring the way his whole face felt like it was on fire, he said “You don’t seem to have a problem with the _lieutenant_ touching you.” 

He felt her eyes on him, and he glanced over at her. That strange, almost smile was on her face again, faint amusement dancing in her eyes. “Are you _sassing_ me, Your Imperial Highness?”

This was bizarrely familiar ground for him- siblings teasing one another. “You started it,” he said, still reeling from the fact that this woman was his sister, and the best placed person to understand what he’d endured and survived after Arcann himself. 

The almost-smile morphed into an actual smile, the expression tentatively awkward on her face. He could relate to that. “I suppose I did,” she said.

____

Ona’la adored children. Had fate not had other plans for her, she would have been happy to be nothing more than a crèchemaster, guiding the Jedi younglings on their first steps towards their true potential for the rest of her life. So perhaps meeting the Lord Wrath’s twin children was not the most extraordinary thing to have ever happened to her, but at that moment, after the stress of the last few months, having two bright-eyed toddlers wanting to play with her was the greatest joy she could have asked for. 

She’d assumed the little boy to be the quieter of the pair, but once he’d gotten over his initial shyness he’d happily clambered into her lap as she sat on the floor with him, holding the end of one of her lek in two fat little hands as if it was the most fascinating toy he’d ever encountered. She barely had to concentrate to make the end twitch, and he shrieked with laughter as he held it, occasionally trying to put the wriggling appendage into his mouth.

“You can tell him to cut that crap out, y’know,” Pierce said, from where he was seated on a nearby couch. “Little shit puts damn near everything in his mouth, one day soon it’s gonna get him in trouble.”

Ona’la scrunched her nose up at the boy in her lap, pulling faces at him as he giggled. “It’s no trouble,” she said, booping him on the nose, to his great delight. On another couch, Xolani was seated with the little girl in her lap, who was babbling at her quite firmly and extensively as if she’d decided that they were having a very grown up conversation. Xolani, for her part, was smiling fondly, making the appropriate noises of approval and encouraging the girl to go on, even as she seemed determined to grab hold of every single one of the twisted locs falling elegantly from Xolani’s head. She had managed to keep her grip on three of them at once, and was doing her best to fit a fourth one in her fists, a little furrow between her brows and a very serious expression on her chubby little face as she babbled nonsensically. 

“You say that now, wait ‘til he starts teething.” She’d spent time around rough sorts like the lieutenant, and had even travelled extensively with Sergeant Rusk on her crew, so she knew better than to expect a great deal of polish from men like them. But Pierce seemed to be inordinately proud of his little family, and not at all perturbed by the fact that his children had a ghost for a grandmother, and a monster for a grandfather, and that they were currently wrapping a pair of Jedi around their little fingers. “He’s gonna be a biter, for sure.” 

Ona'la made a face at the boy and he giggled. “Are you going to be a biter?” she whispered comically loudly, pressing her nose to his. “A chomper? Om nom nom?” 

He squealed at the nibbling motion she made against his cheek, squirming around in her arms to escape. She let him pull away and he grinned toothlessly at her, giggling as he slowly leaned closer again as if daring her to do it again. They continued in that fashion for a minute or two before he patted her cheek familiarly. “Ett!”

“Ett?” she repeated. “What's an ett, sweetie?”

He smiled as he clambered over her lap, little legs wobbling for balance. “Ett! Ett!”

Over on the couch, Pierce sighed loudly. “That ain't your Auntie Vette, kiddo,” he said to the boy. “You can't just look at a twi'lek and think they're all the same, Vaane.”

Hiding her laughter so that she didn't undermine Pierce’s attempts at parenting, she said “My name is Ona’la. Can you say that, Vaane?”

“Aun’ Ay Sah?” 

“She doesn’t have Aunt Jaesa with her, you daft little bugger, because she ain’t your Auntie Vette-”

“Ett! Ettettett!” Vaane surged off of Ona'la's lap and made it halfway across the rug to his father before his excitement overrode his sense of balance and he plopped back down on the floor.

Pierce ran a hand over his face, and the burly soldier actually looked embarrassed. “I’ve got the most racist pair of brats this side of Dromund Kaas,” he grumbled, climbing to his feet and leaning down to scoop up his son, dangling him upside down by his ankles to the shrieking delight of the toddler. “She ain’t Vette, ya’ nexu-boo,” he said. “Ona’la. Say that- your Ma keeps going on about you being the smarter one, say Ona’la.”

“Na laaah,” came the giggling, shrieking response as the toddler hung upside down.

“Close enough,” Pierce grumbled. 

The little girl- Connie, she'd heard Pierce call her- had climbed down off of Xolani’s lap with fierce concentration and made her way over to Ona'la now that Vaane’s attention had shifted. She immediately started talking at her in her babbling language, standing precariously on her leg so that she could reach up and tug and poke at the headpiece Ona'la wore on her brow.

“Couldn't stand Vaaney boy getting all the attention, could you, you little tart?” Pierce called to her. “Had to make sure everyone was paying the most attention to you, didn't you?”

Ona'la laughed, carefully pulling her headpiece off over her lekku and draping it instead over Connie’s head. It dwarfed her, falling off her brow almost immediately and coming to rest over her shoulders. “It's fine,” she said, making a surprised face at the girl until she giggled. “You have a beautiful family.”

“My genes, of course, don't let her lordship tell you otherwise.” He let Vaane slowly come to rest on the floor, letting go of his ankles once he was lying giggling on the rug. “Nah, they're good kids. And she's better with ‘em than she'll admit to.”

“She does not strike me as the maternal sort,” Xolani said, watching Ona'la and Connie with amusement in her eyes.

“She don't _need_ to strike anyone for anything,” Pierce said, his tone teetering between proud and defensive. “All that matters is how she is with the kids, and what she does to keep ‘em safe. She ain't being held up for public inspection on the matter.”

Xolani held up both hands in entreaty. “I apologise, lieutenant, I did not mean to cause offence,” she said. “I simply meant that we had no indication at all that she had a family. It took me by surprise.”

Pierce grinned, almost ferally. “Yeah, that's Quinny Boy’s doing,” he said darkly. “Almost makes up for it.”

“For what?”

“For trying to kill them and their Ma when she were pregnant.” 

Ona'la's eyes widened in shock, and she saw Xolani respond similarly; they did not, however, get a chance to query what such a blunt statement entailed, because someone sighed loudly nearby and she looked up to see Tahrin and Thexan standing just inside the door to the hall. Lord Dara had a vaguely exasperated look on her face as she looked at the lieutenant, but Thexan...

Thexan looked utterly stricken as he stared at her, and she could tell from the splotchy colour in his cheeks and the red in his eyes that he’d been crying. He stared at her as if she were a ghost, and there was such a confusing flux of emotions seething around him that she couldn’t tell anything about him other than that he was lost. 

She murmured an apology to Connie, kissing her on the brow as she carefully took back her headpiece- best not to leave her with it in case she got it wrapped around her neck- as Tahrin said to Pierce “I believe I had asked you to leave that matter to rest.”

Thexan didn’t move at all as Ona’la came towards him, fixing her lekku and her headpiece as she climbed to her feet and walked across the room. Behind her, Pierce snorted in amusement. “I ain’t killed him, but I don’t have to forgive him,” he said. “Not like I’m pretending I’m a better man than that.”

Ona’la slowly came to a stop in front of Thexan, reaching out to take his hands in hers. “Are you alright?” she asked quietly, running her thumbs over the backs of his fingers.

He stared at her for a moment longer, his expression almost crestfallen, and then he tried to smile, a noise escaping from him that seemed like it wanted to be a laugh but teetered on the edge of hysterical. “I don’t think so?” he replied, just as quietly, his voice wobbling ever so slightly and his eyes bright as if he was fighting back tears again. “But I, um... I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, anymore.”

Her heart broke for him. 

When she offered her arms to him, he moved into her embrace without prompting, his face pressed down against her shoulder as if he hoped to hide there. She felt him shudder, but he didn’t cry, and she didn’t prod at him to explain what had upset him- although, honestly, it wasn’t that hard to _guess_ what had upset him, she just didn’t know the particulars of his conversation with Lord Dara. His _sister_.

Goddess preserve. 

“It’s going to be alright, Thexan,” she murmured, running her hand slowly up and down his back as he clung tight to her. “I promise you that.”

“Is it?” he asked, his voice muffled against her shoulder. He pulled away slightly, just enough that he could speak without hindrance; he was close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath on her mouth, close enough that she thought for a moment he meant to rest his forehead against hers. “My father is a monster who shaped me in his image. My brother killed me and then denied me. What am I, if the only thing I have ever been in my life is _wrong?_ ”

“You are not _wrong_ , Thexan,” she whispered, keenly aware that although the conversation behind them had continued, the others surely had to be trying to overhear them. “Nothing about you is wrong. We are going to get you back on your feet, and it’s going to be alright, I promise you that.”

“But-”

“Do you think I would break a promise to you?” she asked, before she could think the question through. When he hesitated, her heart leapt into her throat in a panic. 

Then he relaxed, going almost slack against her, as if the fight had gone out of him. “No,” he said quietly. “You would not.”

“Then it’s going to be alright, isn’t it?”

He was silent for a long moment, and then he carefully pulled himself out of her arms. “I... I think I need some time to myself,” he said. “To... think.”

It hurt. Oh, goddess, it hurt for him to pull away from her, to see him hurting and not being able to help. But she nodded, and she smiled encouragingly, and she said “Of course,” because his awkward and painful attempts at self identity were not hers to dictate. Just because she knew what sort of man he had the potential to be- and the sort of man she desperately wanted him to be- didn’t mean she had a say in the matter. 

He was trying to come to terms with who he was for the first time in his life. He didn’t need a distraction right now. 

But he looked at her in a way that cut right through her, and he whispered “I’m sorry.”

And he walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've actually known for about maybe... two years? Two and a half years? That Tahrin's biological makeup came from my Revan and Vitiate, in the most creepy fashion imaginable, but apart from using her background as a way to explain away the presence of Bro!Revan (he's just another experiment like her! Easy solution!) I never ever dreamed that Bioware would throw a couple of actual biological kids in the mix for Vitiakorion. My first impression watching the trailer for KotFE was "haha that guy in black looks just like a dude version of Tahrin that's hilarious" complete with "gee his outfit is really similar to Tahrin's". 
> 
> I've been dropping hints about it since the very first chapter, but I didn't want to make it too obvious- it's the sort of foreshadowing that might make sense on a second read, but easy to miss the first time. Didn't exactly want to hit you all in the face with the narrative equivalent of a wiffle bat. But I wrote Thexan from the very start using Tahrin as a guide for how he would act and behave, and I even "borrowed" a good deal of her comments and thought processes from her stories and just tweaked them for Thexan. He even went and hurt his hand on a drink in a moment of extreme emotion, just like Tahrin did a few years earlier. And the first thing Ona'la ever did when she sat next to Thexan while he was unconscious was compare him to Tahrin, without realising what she was doing.


	28. Chapter 28

Tahrin was not particularly good at empathising with others, even after years of freedom outside of the facility she’d been raised in, but watching Thexan walk away from the Battlemaster in a state of distress roused a pang of something in her that she could only assume was empathy. She remembered what it was to stand in his shoes and stare bleakly at the abyss at her feet, trying to come to terms with the truth of her life. That was empathy, was it not? Being able to put oneself into another’s place, understanding and sharing the emotional upheaval they were going through? 

She’d at least had the advantage of not having lived a normal life. Growing up with siblings, with parents, with some vague semblance of normalcy only to have it snatched away... surely that had to hurt more. She’d had nothing, a blank slate instead of a history, a yawning emptiness instead of a childhood, and the knowledge that she had never been intended to be a person in the first place so much as a sentient weapon made it far easier to come to terms with the horror of her parentage.

But she’d had Gabriel, and she’d had Vette and Jaesa and Malavai and even Broonmark, and she’d had her children to give her some sense of humanity and personhood and tether her to this life. She’d had nothing behind her to give her perspective, true, no sense of personal history or belonging, but she’d definitely had a future to fight for. Thexan on the other hand seemed to be trying to determine whether he had anything, disconnected from both his family and his future... although his immediate gravitation towards the Battlemaster, and her to him, was utterly fascinating.

Not necessarily a complication, but certainly not something she’d anticipated. 

She could work with that.

“I know that look, you devious wench,” Gabriel said under his breath, his hand on her knee as they sat together on the couch watching the twins climb all over the aforementioned Battlemaster as if she were their own personal playground. “You’re up to something.”

“It pays to be prepared for every eventuality, Gabriel,” she murmured, “I hardly think that makes me devious.” 

“See what I mean? Sidestepping the question. Devious.”

She glanced sideways at him and he chuckled, clearly pleased with himself. “I assure you, taking a moment to consider my options given the new information that’s come to light is only sensible.”

“Uh huh,” he said, one arm propped on the back of the couch so he could lean his chin on his fist. “And what’ve you decided your options are, what with all your new fancy information?” 

The sound of an engine passing low overhead resolved itself into the sight of a sleek, white vessel circling low over the mesa, casting shadows briefly through the skylights in the vaulted ceiling of the ziggurat before it became visible through the wide stone entrance of the hall, settling on the landing pad; the metallic white hull caught the morning sunlight, reflecting it almost painfully in their direction, and she looked away, blinking. 

“I’ve decided I need to be open to new information as it comes to light,” she said, waving a hand vaguely in the direction of the newly arrived ship. Constance had climbed down off of Ona’la’s lap and into an open space between the couches, staring transfixed at the vessel and pointing with a fat little arm as she babbled quietly to herself. 

“You say that like you expect me to believe you ain’t planned all of this down to the minute,” Pierce said, eyeing Vaane as he gummed happily on the end of one of Ona’la’s lek. She didn’t seem to mind- or even notice, preoccupied as she was by the appearance of the ship. 

“I take it we are not your only guests, Lord Wrath,” Master Xo said curtly, her suspicion still written large on her face. Tahrin didn’t need to be an expert on reading people to know that the Commander expected her to be treacherous. 

Tahrin returned her stare just as coolly. “As much as I admire the talents of yourself and the Battlemaster, Commander Xo, if we are to stand any chance of victory against Vitiate and the war he has set in motion, we will benefit from assistance.”

“What?” Ona’la looked startled, speaking for the first time since Thexan had dramatically swept from the room. Stars above, she only hoped she had never seemed so... _melodramatic_. “I thought-”

“That I had called you here simply for a family reunion?” Tahrin supplied. 

Ona’la’s eyes darted tellingly to the staircase towards the upper balcony and the immense grounds of the mesa. “It seemed significant,” she said quietly. 

She’d known a number of Jedi in her time, and she knew that while the Order had quiet procedures in place to accommodate spouses and children, there was a huge difference between discreetly looking the other way for respectful, stable relationships and allowing such a prominent member of the Order to conduct herself in such a fashion. With Thexan’s emotional turmoil at a safe distance, she should have had a buffer from such upheaval- but she could feel it just as easily through the Battlemaster, an echo of Thexan’s pain and the added intrigue of Ona’la’s own distress. 

It was distracting, and she did not appreciate it. She had no thoughts one way or the other about Thexan and Ona’la’s obvious interest in one another, apart from the fact that she was a very obvious tether for him. _She_ had survived Vitiate’s manipulations because _she_ had had Gabriel and the children, and something she would awkwardly acknowledge as a family amongst her friends. Thexan would survive, he was easily strong enough, but... well, the extra impetus Ona’la’s affections might provide couldn’t hurt, could it?

And if Ona’la returned to Republic space to fight the war, still blatantly pining after their enemy, someone would notice. There would be repercussions. The Battlemaster was too critical to her plans to allow that to happen.

Jaesa would probably have been more suitable for this than she, but there was nothing else for it. Jaesa was half a galaxy away, pursuing a different goal. 

It was on her.

She had work to do. 

She rose to her feet, smoothing her hands over the lines of her grey woollen tunic to make sure it was sitting properly. “We have a war to fight, Battlemaster,” she said. “I do not have time for frivolities in a time like this.”

____

“If I’d known we were going to a carnival I would have put on something more family friendly,” Thake drawled, leaning against a pillar of stone as he took in the immense stone temple bedecked in flags and strings of paper lanterns. 

Lana batted irritably at an insect buzzing around her ear, her nerves already ragged at the mere fact that she was back on Yavin on no more than the vague promises of the Wrath. She could have been home already, in the achingly empty penthouse in Kaas City that would smell like Kallathe and thrum almost sullenly with her absence. She could have been scrounging about desperately with those few who remained amongst the other Ministers, placating what little remained of the Dark Council as they attempted to pull together their forces to meet the threat Zakuul posed. 

She could have been sitting on a council of war, making preparations to storm The Spire en masse, to rescue the woman she loved and one of the few Dark Lords that she trusted to act with any transparency. 

The Empire needed Darth Nox. _She_ needed Darth Nox. 

Instead she was back on a swampy, backwater moon, trying to shake off the memory of how exhilarating it had been to fight through these very same jungles with Kallathe at her side, trying to forget how wonderful it had been to spend the warm, humid nights entwined together in the questionable privacy of their tent. 

“There is _nothing_ about you that is family friendly, Thake,” Thessa said, her voice expressing the annoyance that Lana felt. After so many weeks cooped up together, fleeing from the Eternal Fleet’s incessant hunters, she had far less patience for the quirks of her travelling companions than she’d had when they’d departed. Watcher One was apparently of the same mind. “You could be rendered mute and paralysed, and you’d still find a way to be offensive.”

“Ooh, look at Ma getting all snappy and snarly,” Kaliyo said, wandering down the ramp behind them. She stretched lazily, arms reaching up over her head towards the washed out blue sky. “Who’d’ve known she had a backbone in there?”

“It hides under that terrible haircut,” Thake said bluntly. “Do you think they have sugar fluff, if this is a carnival? Cheesy chips?”

“This is not a _carnival_ , you _deliberately_ obtuse-”

“Five credits says we can use that waterfall as a slide,” Kaliyo said, pointing at the water cascading over the top of the temple.

“You’d best get your five credits ready then,” Thake said, squaring his shoulders and marching off in the direction of the waterfall without a backwards glance. 

Lana put a hand up to her forehead, feeling a headache come on as she watched with dismayed disbelief. “It’s just the heat,” she said, mostly to herself. “It’s the heat, it’s making me imagine things.” 

“Maybe if you imagine the fall from the cliff breaking his neck we’ll all be spared his childish nerfshit,” Thessa muttered under her breath, and Lana did stare at her in disbelief.

“You have _never_ cursed before.”

It was hard to read the expression in her fathomless red eyes, but it wasn’t hard to read the waves of irritation washing off of her. “It does not mean I am incapable of it,” she said. “He likes to think that he is the only one among us to have suffered. He doesn’t think that the rest of us would like to lash out and misbehave as a means to express our grief and our hurt, and mocks me precisely because I do _not_ do that.” She breathed out explosively. “But I’m tired and I hate the heat and I’ve lost my daughter and right now I do not have the patience to deal with his... his _escapades_.” 

It was perhaps the most animated she’d ever seen her, and Lana realised after a moment that she was gaping unkindly at her. 

Thessa sighed a moment later, bowing her head. “Apologies, my Lord,” she said quietly. “I forgot my place.”

It was a jarring reminder of their differences, after weeks of enforced closeness, and Lana actually found it quite... hurtful, if anything. “There’s no need to apologise,” she said brusquely, already slipping back into the persona of _superior_ rather than _friend_. She’d begun to think they were friends, unconsciously perhaps, but Thessa’s abrupt insistence on protocol made it starkly clear to her how much she’d allowed herself to relax. To let her guard down. She both hated herself for the weakness and despaired at earning back that level of trusting intimacy ever again. 

She was in rather short supply for friends these days. 

“It’s been a long journey, and we’re all tired,” she said, continuing onwards and ignoring her maudlin internal monologue. “We shall recover ourselves, see what it is that the Wrath demands of us and how it can be of benefit to us, and then we shall make our way to Dromund Kaas to assist in the war effort.”

“Of course, my Lord,” Thessa said politely, her own shields coming down in response to Lana’s curt tone. 

A figure in grey and black appeared in the vast stone portal to the temple, short and plump and utterly unremarkable to a casual observer, but both women stilled abruptly at the sight of her. Behind them, up the ramp and inside the ship’s corridor, Vector and Doctor Lokin were conversing quietly, bizarrely casual and relaxed given how stressed everyone else was. 

Lana hated herself for the instinctive fear reaction to the Wrath, but she’d seen too much these past few years to write her off as just another sith; were Tahrin ambitious or power hungry, then she’d be more at ease around her, because that she could understand. Sith were creatures of wild passions and torrential rages, desperate for attention and power and determined to glut themselves on both until it killed them. 

The cold emptiness in the Lord Wrath frightened her, because not only was she bluntly confronted with the fact that she was in the presence of a predator, she was also forced to accept that in Tahrin, she saw a shadow of herself, a hint of what could have been. She’d always prided herself on being called level-headed, or the less kind comments of cold and unemotional. She was focused, and she was driven, and she was not swayed by her passions the way her contemporaries were- and yet in the Wrath she saw the end result of such blank iciness, and it _terrified_ her.

“Well then,” she said stiffly, smoothing damp palms over her thighs, “let’s see what the Wrath has to say that was so important as to divert our travel plans.” 

“This is a dangerous time for internal power plays,” Thessa said quietly, falling into step beside her as they crossed the uneven ground between the landing pad and the temple proper. “And I have little patience for the ambitions of sith.” 

Lana had read her file extensively, and knew all about her eleventh hour defiance of Darth Jadus, which had in turn led to her brutal indoctrination and brainwashing at the hands of the former Imperial Intelligence. To say she had a right to be wary of sith was somewhat of an understatement, and Lana had long suspected her reasons for agreeing to the suicidal venture into Wild Space in the first place had less to do with her loyalty to Intelligence and more to do with preferring to gamble her hopes on a jedi instead of a sith.

Lord Dara did not move to greet them, waiting for them to approach her; she was almost preternaturally still as she watched them, and Lana felt a shiver pass down her spine at the look in her eyes. 

“Lord Beniko,” she said without preamble, as they climbed the steps towards her. “Watcher One.”

“Lord Wrath,” Lana said, meeting her gaze coolly. “I assume there is just cause for you to call us to a backwater moon while the Empire is under siege?” 

Tahrin’s mouth twitched as if she’d gone to smile, and thought better of it. It was an unnerving expression. “I would not presume to take up the time of two such important individuals at such a time as this without just cause,” she said, and Lana couldn’t help but feel that she was prodding slightly at her ego. “Zakuul has declared war, and ergo I find myself in dire need of a war council.” 

That had been... well, no, it wasn’t absolutely the last thing she’d been expecting her to say, but it certainly wasn’t ranked very high. “I beg your pardon?”

“A war council, Lord Beniko,” she repeated. “Like-minded individuals who recognise that we cannot allow ourselves to be divided by something as petty as political ideologies while faced with the complete destruction of our way of life. Zakuul represents a greater threat than our squabbles with the Jedi, but we both know-”

“That the Council will never see it as such,” Lana finished, already reeling. “Forgive me, Lord Wrath, but if I have you right, you’re asking us to commit treason?”

“In order to save the Empire, we must do what is necessary,” Lord Dara said. And then she _did_ smile. “And given that you already went above and beyond the call of duty to save the Battlemaster and my brother, I had hoped we would be of a like mind.”

____

She wanted to go to Thexan. 

Goddess help her, it was taking all of her strength just to stay where she was, and not go tearing off across the mesa looking for him. She could feel his pain and his grief as plainly as if it were her own, and she couldn’t even begin to imagine the depths of the despair he must be facing. She couldn’t even believe that he was attempting to struggle through it alone- the first thing she did in her moments of weakness and heartache was to reach out to the people who loved her, who she knew would hold her or sit with her over holo and just talk to her until she’d purged herself of the poison within her. It was one of the things she missed most about Orgus, to be honest, and his humble, loving way of drawing her out of herself when the grief threatened to overwhelm her. 

It was one of the things she missed most about Kira- affectionate, loud-mouthed, almost aggressively supportive Kira, who would latch onto her in her best impression of a Naboo swamp leech, loving her ruthlessly even when she struggled to love herself. 

She could not have survived without love, so what in all the red sands was Thexan to do, with no family and no brother but for one who denied him and no father but for one who terrified him? 

There were tears burning at her eyes, and she dashed them away carefully, well practised at how to do so without smearing her carefully applied cosmetics. She wanted to go to him, with _everything_ in her she wanted to go to him and hold him and promise him that everything was going to be alright, that he was safe and he was strong and he was loved-

-and she shouldn’t be feeling such things for a man who only eight months earlier had tried to kill her, an event that still gave her nightmares. She shouldn’t be feeling anything but wary respect for a man who was confirmed to be Vitiate’s son- or at least, the child of one of his many forms- and who was the prince of an enemy empire and a killer and a war criminal and _goddess help her_ but there was a _good man_ hiding under those scars and she’d offered him her friendship and at the very least she could comfort him as a _friend_ and love him as a _friend_ and desire wasn’t love anyway, her physical attraction to Thexan was certainly not love, love was what she felt for the people she cared about and alright yes she cared for Thexan more and more each passing day but-

“Stop,” she whispered, pressing her fingers to her temple as if she could just reach in and pluck out the frantic, over-obsessive thoughts and discard them. The other hand clung grimly to the railing on the internal balcony, where she was not so subtly keeping watch on both the main hall and the bridge that led to the rest of the mesa, hoping to catch a glimpse of Thexan when he finally finished licking his wounds and crept back to her. 

And just like that she’d gotten straight back into the circular, desperate thought process, straight back to Thexan.

Casting around for anything that could serve as a distraction, she could hear Tahrin’s voice bouncing off the walls of the vast hall below her feet, and she shifted along the railing until she could see her. 

Below her, she could see Tahrin standing with one of the twins on her hip, the toddler’s face turned away from her to peer over her shoulder, so she couldn’t say which one it was. Her seneschal- the man who had greeted them on the currently inoperable space station- was standing with her, his pose mirroring hers as he carefully carried the _other_ twin on _his_ hip, absently bouncing the child as he held a datapad in the other hand. 

“The governor of Prishardia was more than amenable to our overtures, my Lord,” she could hear him saying, deftly scrolling through the datapad one handed while he balanced the toddler as if it was a regular occurrence for him. “We were correct in assuming she had grown frustrated with the Ministry of Logistics.” 

“Her people have gone unpaid for over a year and the industry of her planet falters dangerously- I’d say frustration is a mild sentiment for what she is feeling.”

Ona’la felt somewhat guilty for eavesdropping on their conversation, but justified it to herself by pointing out that they weren’t exactly seeking out privacy for their discussion. Prishardia only vaguely tugged at her memory, and she couldn’t remember for the life of her where it was. She had a sneaking suspicion it might have been an agriworld.

“Her language was extraordinarily colourful, my Lord,” Quinn admitted almost ruefully.

“Can you negotiate the contract from here, or will you need to visit the governor in person?”

The toddler in Quinn’s arms started fussing, and Ona’la was impressed with how unfazed he was with the child, changing the rhythm he rocked them to and absently soothing them under his breath before answering. “Once Dilyara Station is back online I believe I can conduct the negotiations to a satisfactory conclusion from there, but it is possible that a show of personal outreach would garner us far more beneficial terms.” 

Tahrin kissed the brow of the toddler on her hip. “Possible or certain? I don’t have time for your modesty, Malavai- if you know you are capable of acquiring us better terms-”

“I am.”

“Good. Then make the arrangements. We’ll cope for a few days without you.”

“We have the GSI product launch to consider-”

She waved her free hand dismissively. “We’ve a new war, the launch will be a success, our stocks will perform adequately and we can use the profits to build a stronger negotiating platform with the Hutts,” she said. “If there’s any issues, Rathari can deal with it.”

Quinn let the squirming child in his arms down onto the floor- she could see from the changed angle now that it was Connie- and she sat heavily onto the rug, looking around for a moment and singing noises to herself as she patted her hand repeatedly on Quinn’s shoe. “If it’s quite alright with you, my Lord, I would prefer not to be responsible for passing that message on to Lord Rathari.”

“I would have thought you’d be inured to threats given the nature of your relationship with Gabriel.”

“There is quite a difference between enduring the posturing and empty threats of physical violence from an oaf like the lieutenant and having to cope with the tantrums of a sith lord who believes themself to be disrespected.”

“There are so many responses I could give to that, Malavai, not least of which would be an observation on the casual boldness with which you speak to me.”

“My apologies, my lord, I should have said present company excluded, of course.”

Ona’la couldn’t be entirely certain, but she definitely suspected that the two of them were _teasing_ one another. What an odd relationship. 

“What is the status of the station?” Tahrin said, patting Vaane’s back soothingly as he twisted impatiently in her arms. 

“The damage was minimal, thank goodness, and Lord Scourge is recovering well in the medical suites aboard the Doombringer. Moff Pyron is maintaining a more sensible distance, so we won’t be able to use the shuttle for transfers for the moment. The repair crews have advised that it will be fit for habitation again in approximately sixteen hours.”

“That is better than I expected.”

Quinn made a face, and from this angle she couldn’t quite tell what it was supposed to express. “Remarkably, whether intentionally or not, she did not damage the life support systems, nor were there any substantial hull breaches. She appears to have been more interested in making a scene than doing any significant damage.”

“What a surprise,” Tahrin said dryly. Her son continued to fuss in her arms, and she sighed, smoothing his dark curls away from his brow. “Apologies, Malavai, I might have to ask if we can continue this later. I strongly suspect someone is overdue for a nap.” 

“Of course, my lord, no need to apologise. I fear I am somewhat behind schedule as it is, what with our unplanned relocation- I had notes on the budget adjustments that I have not had time to prepare for your approval.” 

“Excellent. Continue to oversee the relocation- I’ve not yet had word from the Coalition camp, see that they report in- and make sure that Moff Pyron has his files in order for the war council tomorrow.” 

“As you say, my lord.” He deftly bent and scooped up Connie, helping Tahrin to settle her on her other hip, so that she had a babe in each arm. That he did not need to be asked for such assistance was intriguing indeed- if what Lieutenant Pierce had said about Quinn attempting to kill Lord Dara in the past was true, he was doggedly committing himself to making up for it. He treated the twins with the same sort of care that their father did, absent-minded affection tied in with the oddly distracted attentiveness that all parents adopted in time. 

For a woman so peculiarly disconnected from her own humanity, Lord Dara seemed to have no problem in inspiring the best in those around her. Not really a quality she would have suspected in a sith lord, least of all Vitiate’s former assassin. 

She’d spent several years travelling with one of Vitiate’s former assassins, and Scourge most certainly did _not_ inspire the best in people.

Lord Dara and her seneschal went their separate ways below her, with Lord Dara heading to the stairwell that would undoubtedly take her to the children’s private quarters, and Quinn heading in the opposite direction, ostensibly to continue working on his reports. She probably shouldn’t have been eavesdropping, but the entire conversation had been fascinating- Lord Dara was making arrangements with an entire agriworld? Just how extensive were her forces if she needed the production output of an entire planet to outfit them adequately? And a product launch, what in all the red sands was that about?

There were footsteps behind her, and she tried not to let her optimism show in her eyes as she turned to face the sound, hoping against hope that it was Thexan. Instead she faltered as she came face to face with Lord Dara, the woman’s face far too knowing as she stood there with her children in her arms. 

“Did you learn anything of interest, Battlemaster?” she asked politely, apparently utterly unconcerned at the fact that Ona’la had been eavesdropping. 

Ona’la, for her part, felt her lekku curl slightly up her back in shame. “I- my apologies, Lord Dara, it was not my intention to intrude-”

“If I had not wanted you to hear my conversation, I would not have stood underneath your hiding place.”

Flustered, Ona’la said “I was not _hiding_ -”

“Indeed,” Tahrin said wryly, adjusting her hold on Connie, who seemed determined to wriggle out of her grip. “If I may be so bold, Battlemaster, I’d advise you to relax. Thexan still needs some time, and neither he nor yourself will come to any harm while you are my guests.” 

“He needs someone with him.”

“With all due respect, he’s had someone with him his entire life,” Tahrin said pointedly. “I rather think it’s more important that he learn how to be his own person right now, rather than just an extension of his brother.”

It was a good point, but Ona’la resented the implication that Lord Dara knew him better than she did after a single conversation together. “I hardly think that’s something he’s going to come to terms with in the space of a day’s worth of reflection.”

Tahrin’s expression was frustratingly unreadable. “Perhaps,” she said. “The point is, it is not your right to choose his path for him, regardless of what your feelings for each other might be.” 

Ona’la felt her stomach drop down into the floor, and the blood drain from her face. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” she said quietly, even as she cringed internally at the realisation that Lord Dara had apparently picked up on her interest in Thexan. She thought she’d kept her feelings discreet, goddess preserve...

... unless _Thexan_ had said something in confidence to Tahrin, which might mean that she already knew he had feelings for her and this was her subtle way of informing her of that. But, goddess, if it was in confidence then why would Lord Dara feel at all entitled to even hint at such things to her, when she should have been working to keep her brother’s trust and _goddess preserve just focus for two minutes_. 

Tahrin just looked at her with a far too knowing expression in her familiar grey eyes, and then turned to take the children off to bed. Horrified at the thought that the conversation might end there, with her half-hearted protestations about her interest in Thexan, Ona’la said instead “What is Prishardia, Lord Dara?”

She stopped a few steps down the staircase, and she half turned back towards her. “It is an agriworld in Imperial space,” she said, “and it was previously the primary source of food for Ziost.” 

At the mention of the dead world, Ona’la’s stomach flipflopped miserably. “And now?”

“And now their crops rot in the street and in their warehouses, because the Empire suddenly has fifteen million less citizens in need of food, and in the nature of the internal politicking of the sith no one has adequately dealt with the fact that they no longer wish to pay for food they cannot use.”

Thinking of all the desperation and suffering she’d seen along the front lines of the war these last few years, Ona’la said “Cannot? Or will not?”

“You seem grossly optimistic about the potential altruism of my peers, Battlemaster. Call it what you will, but if they are not required to part with their funds, then they will not.”

She turned to leave again, and Ona’la called out to her again. “You cannot possibly have a force even close to fifteen million in your employ,” she said dubiously. “What are you planning?”

Tahrin’s chuckle made her skin crawl. “Not yet, I don’t.”

____

“I’m afraid she was quite insistent, sir,” the soldier said, saluting smarting as Pierce approached. “I apologise for drawing you away from your duties.”

Pierce rolled his shoulders, feeling the sweat slide down his spine beneath his camouflaged fatigues. “Anyone wanna gimme a reason why they got all the way into the compound before anyone thought to stop ‘em?”

“Because I’m fucking good at my job, you little shit!” 

At the sound of his sister’s voice, Pierce couldn’t hold up the facade of the gruff commander, putting his hands on his hips and shaking his head as he laughed. “At ease, lads,” he said, gesturing towards the handcuffed figures at the back of the field command tent. “Let ‘em go.”

“Sir?”

“They’re safe,” he said. “So that’s an order, chop chop. Let the lady up before she starts threatening to kick all our arses.”

“She’s already been doing that sir. Quite extensively.”

“Damn fucking right I have, you-”

“Now now, Izzy,” Pierce said, squinting while his eyes adjusted to the gloom of the tent. Ysaine was there, as well as two kids who couldn't have been more than twenty and who were staring sullenly at him, and a Devaronian who was- 

He blinked. “Who gagged horny, here?” he asked, jerking a thumb towards the red skinned alien. 

Ysaine was rubbing her wrists irritably as she climbed to her feet, looming over everyone else in the tent. “I asked ‘em to,” she said. “He was annoying the shit out of me.” 

The Devaronian spat out the gag the moment his hands were free, clawing it away from his mouth. “I was simply trying to bargain for a better situation,” he said placatingly, although it came off as somewhat whiny. 

“You tried to sell my ship to get them to let you go.”

“To let _all_ of us go, sweetheart.”

“And where we were gonna go once you sold _my_ ship, our only means of transport?”

He waved a hand dismissively. “Details, details, you can’t expect a great intellect like mine to get bogged down in the fine print like that.”

Pierce rubbed at his jaw, the sweat stinging faintly on the freshly shaved portions of his cheeks. “What’re you doing out here, Izzy?” he asked bluntly. “I’m pretty sure Tahrin asked you to play detective for her.” 

“I _am_ , you shithead,” she said, arms crossed over her chest as she looked at him in exasperation. “I think the more important question is why’re _you_ out here, where apparently some folks have Pub accents and don’t have a problem calling you Commander?” 

He beamed at her. “It’s just my commanding presence, innit?” 

She made a rude noise. “You obtuse git-”

“Now, now, Izzy, such language at your age-”

“I _am_ investigating,” she said, loudly and slowly. “Because your little princeling got shot at by the Imperial guard, so I came out to the only place I could think of where I might still find myself a free-range one for the taking.” 

“Heh, factory brand Imperial guard just not doing it for you?” 

“And _instead_ ,” she continued, and a lesser man might have withered under that glare, “I find you shacked up here playing yourself off as some discount warlord or some shit in the jungle. What’s going on, Gabby?”

He grinned at her. “How long’ve you got?”

____

After trying to get in contact with Lana for almost two months now, it seemed somewhat bizarre to know that she was somewhere in the same complex as her, and yet feel terrified of what their reunion might entail. The fact that Lana did not seek her out immediately upon her arrival seemed, to her, to be an ill omen. 

She couldn’t really say that she blamed her for avoiding her. She’d given up the most important relationship in her life in order to save her, and she was a sith, at the end of the day- who knew what sort of resentment and anger she’d allowed to fester in her heart in the weeks since her rescue, feeding off of it in some wretched cycle of empowerment and despair?

Were sith made stronger by their own suffering, or only the suffering of others? 

With Tahrin’s less than subtle observations about Thexan ringing in her head, she steeled herself and went in search of Lord Beniko, finding her eventually in Tahrin’s almost breathtakingly impressive library. She was seated in the shadow of the immense holocron, several datapads and a datacron scattered on the table in front of her, but quite obviously distracted from all of them. Ona’la hesitated in the doorway, unsure whether her intrusion would be welcome or not. 

She needn’t have worried; Lana let out a sound that was part laugh and part sob, not even looking up before she put a hand up to her eyes. “I was beginning to think you were avoiding me too,” she said, her voice making an attempt for brevity and somewhat spoiled by the tremor in her words, as if she were on the verge of tears.

Ona’la’s heart broke for her. “Why would I be avoiding you, Lana?” she asked softly, almost terrified to speak the words aloud.

“How should I know?” Lana said, waving a hand somewhat erratically. “I’ve done my best to alienate and endanger everyone else I thought to call a friend, why should you be at all different?” 

If there was one thing Ona’la was incapable of resisting, it was the desire to help when she saw someone in distress. She crossed the room to where Lana was seated, and she barely had to even offer before she’d turned in her seat to face her, her arms going around her waist while her face was pressed against her stomach while she wept. Ona’la let her cry, stroking her hair gently and offering her words of encouragement, rubbing soothing circles on her back where she could reach her. 

“You saved my life, Lana,” she said quietly, once her sobs had abated somewhat. “There is nothing I would not do for you, nothing you could do that would drive me away at this point.”

“I imagine I could think of something if I set my mind to it,” Lana said, her voice raw and hoarse from the storm of her weeping. 

Ona’la chuckled softly. “Mm, but you’re presuming of course that I would not defy everything in my path to see you given a chance to redeem yourself,” she said. “I’m a sucker for a redemption arc, after all.” 

Lana laughed weakly, and Ona’la smiled at the sound, carding her fingers gently through her hair. It was probably a rather insensitive observation for a time like this, but Lana had such lovely hair; granted, she was fascinated by hair in general, given that her eyelashes were the grand total of her own body hair, but Lana’s hair was soft and ran through her fingers like silk. 

It reminded her of the nights when she hadn’t been able to sleep from the nightmares, and so Kira would sit up with her, letting her play with her hair and teaching her how to put in the intricate braids and knots that humans used as a means of decoration and rank. 

“I wanted to thank you for what you did,” she said into the silence, broken only by Lana’s sniffling. “I... I don’t have words for how immensely grateful I am. I’m stunned, really.”

Lana didn’t answer her, so she forged onwards. “I’ve been trying to get hold of you ever since I woke, actually. I don’t know what prompted you to accept such a suicidal undertaking on my behalf, but I’m so grateful. There is nothing I could ever do that could repay you for the risks you took for me, and the honour you did me.” 

She heard her sigh against her stomach, the sound weary and bittersweet. “How can you not realise?” Lana asked quietly, her voice muffled by the now tear-sodden fabric wrapped about Ona’la’s middle. 

“I- realise what?” She laughed nervously. “If this is your attempt at declaring your secret love for me, I must say I’m flattered but surely your wife would have something to say on the matter.”

Lana was quiet for a long few moments, and Ona’la had just begun to build the courage to apologise for what was clearly a poor choice of words, when she heard her laugh just as quietly. “I do not think Kallathe’s opinion on witnessing me with another woman is something that can be voiced in polite company,” she said. “But, needless to say, she’d either ask us to continue, or announce that she planned on joining us.”

Ona’la’s cheeks abruptly heated at the images such words roused in her imagination, and she felt her lekku shiver. “Um,” she said eloquently, swallowing what was sure to be even further poorly chosen words. 

“While I appreciate the attempt at brevity, my dear Ona’la,” she said, “what I was attempting to express to you- and apparently inadequately- was that, as much as it hurts me to acknowledge it, your survival is far more important than you seem to realise.”

She tried to laugh, but it didn’t really come out much like one. “The things you say, Lana,” she said. “Surely I cannot be more important than your Darth Nox.” 

“Kallathe, as much as I adore her, cannot offer the galaxy what you can,” Lana said softly. 

Ona’la felt her stomach lurch, Lana’s words far too reminiscent of something that Scourge might say. “And what might that be?” she asked quietly.

Lana sighed. “Hope, Battlemaster,” she said. “You give the galaxy hope. Not because you are some fated warrior of prophecy and not because you are some chosen one, but because you stand up to tyranny and evil and you do not falter. You’ve come back from death three times now, and you have faced Vitiate and lived- and that is powerful indeed.”

Ona’la closed her eyes, the answer still far more than she wanted to hear. “I am nothing special, Lana,” she whispered.

“And it is precisely because you say that that you are,” Lana countered. She finally sat back, almost awkwardly drawing her arms away from her; Ona’la let her go, feeling just as inelegant. Lana wiped at her eyes, her makeup leaving dark marks on her cheeks that she halfheartedly tried to clean away..“But enough of that,” she said, smiling weakly as she made a clear effort to compose herself and stop the last of the tears. “I cannot say how relieved I am to see you whole and hale.”

“It is good to be less frozen, I’ll be the first to say that,” Ona’la said, grateful for the change of topic. “And you are... well?”

Lana laughed weakly. “As well as can be expected, given the circumstances,” she said, and Ona’la hid her wince from her, because she didn’t say ‘ _as well as can be expected given that I traded my love for the good of everyone_ ’ even if it hung in the air between them. “Immensely grateful that I have the freedom to leave that damned ship for a time.” 

“Long travel times wearing on the nerves?”

“You have no idea.” She settled her hands in her lap and sighed. “But what of you, Ona’la? I’ve heard so little of you while I’ve been gone, but I understand you’ve still got the prince as your prisoner?”

Ona’la swallowed back the guilty giggle that tried to bubble past her lips. “I think that we have much to talk about, you and I.” 

____

“I cannot do this, sir,” Thessa said, no attempt at a greeting once the holocomm connected. 

The man on the holographic image in front of her had had many names throughout the years. Agent. Keeper. Minister. She had no idea what his true name was, and she was under no illusion that he ever intended to enlighten her. He had worn no official title since the sith had imprisoned him after the disaster with the Star Cabal, but that had not stopped him from meddling. 

Now he was the Imperial director of an organisation with no name, the counterpart to Ardun Kothe in Republic space. When she had agreed to work with Ardun so long ago, she had never in a million years imagined that it would have led her straight back to this man.

And yet here she was.

“You cannot do what, agent?” he said, sounding exceedingly bored already, verging on irritation.

“ _Any_ of it,” she spat, all but shaking with the force of her emotions. “I have given- _everything_ , and it’s still- it’s still not enough, and I just don’t have it in me to keep giving when this empire and this war are only going to keep draining me-”

“Is that seditious talk, my dear?”

“ _Don’t_ speak to me like that,” she snarled, stabbing her finger towards the holographic image. Her accent had grown thicker, her careful control over her speech slipping in the wild heat of her emotions. “I am not some wayward child, that you can speak to in such a manner.”

“If you’re going to comm me in a state of hysterics, I don’t see why I shouldn’t speak to you like a child.”

“They’ve forbidden me from seeing my _child!_ ” Her voice broke, and it took everything in her not to crumple then and there. “I did exactly as you and Kothe asked, I planted the idea for the Battlemaster’s rescue and I manipulated the only family I have left to me so that he would desecrate one of my people’s sacred houses of knowledge, and for _what_?”

He sighed. “Is that a serious question, Watcher? We both know the answer to that.”

“So I must sacrifice all of my personal relationships and the people I care for in order for the galaxy to have more even odds in an upcoming war? I must lie and manipulate the people who trust me, is that all?”

“Your sacrifices will save the lives of millions, if not billions, of Imperial and Republic citizens both,” he said, with the sort of weariness that comes from having memorised something by rote. “Which you knew when you enlisted in Imperial Intelligence, and accepted the risks, and which you knew with even more clarity once you agreed to assist Kothe in our cross-faction alliance.”

“You _used_ me-”

He scoffed at her. “Of course I did. You are a resource, my dear, and we have had this conversation far too many times for my liking now. Now pull yourself together, because Kothe’s second in command will arrive tomorrow, and the two of you have a great deal of work to do.”

The signal disconnected and she didn’t realise she was crying until she was already on her knees, great heaving sobs that verged on hysterical. It didn’t take much for her to lose control of her stomach, leaning forward and retching until what little she’d managed to eat for breakfast coloured the pristine deck of the Phantom, the bile burning the inside of her nose and her throat. 

Shuffling footsteps interrupted her dazed weeping sometime later, and there was a rather dramatic robotic gasp. “Oh, by the maker, mistress,” said 2V, sounding almost scandalised. “Are you quite alright? Should I perhaps fetch Doctor Lokin?”

Wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, Thessa clawed her way back to her feet, leaning heavily on the console as she did. For a long moment she didn’t answer, fighting just to get her breath back and waiting for the ship to stop spinning around her.

“Mistress?”

“Just clean up the mess, 2V,” she said hoarsely. “Speak of this to no one.” 

____

Xolani was more relieved to see Parrot come in with one of the transports from Dilyara Station than she wanted to admit to. To have come so far only to lose what little remained of her wife and her colleagues in the most absurd of circumstances- a grudge match between an immortal assassin and the lingering remnants of one of the most powerful Force users in history.

Well. She’d essentially lost her wife to the violent madness of the most malevolent creature ever to walk amongst mortals, and she’d almost lost her ship to an ambush months in the making by droids from a civilization that sought to wipe them off of the galactic map entirely. Losing her droid as collateral in a fight between Scourge and Darth Revan- of all people- almost seemed fitting.

She sat in a gazebo beside the waterfall, trying to ignore the crude shouting going on between a chiss fellow and a rakata woman at the top of the falls. Were it not for their yahooing, it would be remarkable peaceful here, in the shade of the afternoon, watching the blue and pink sky and feeling the mist of the waterfall drift over her occasionally whenever the wind blew. 

She could almost pretend she was not sitting in the home of the Wrath, waiting for the moment when treachery overcame them all. The Lord Wrath kept alluding to war, that much was obvious, and she found her claims of kinship with the prince suspicious to say the least. Ona’la, bless her heart, was too preoccupied with her own concerns for Thexan, to the point where Xolani was wondering whether it was appropriate to take her aside for a certain chat. She remembered what it was to be in the flush of first attraction, the thrill and distraction of it, and while she’d come to realise that there was more to the prince than she might have first assumed, she couldn’t necessarily say she thought it a good idea. 

There’d never been any rumours about the Battlemaster involving herself with anyone before now- with the exception of the ridiculous gossip surrounding her and Satele’s boy- so she had to assume this was her first foray into romance. Surely she could not have kept it a secret if this was how she chose to conduct herself on previous liaisons. 

Parrot tweeted and whistled at the surrounding wildlife as she sat and contemplated her options, and she was so lost in thought that at first she didn’t recognise the moment when their audio settings clicked loudly, as if shifting from one file to the next. The birds in the towering trees of the mesa continued onwards without the droid’s input, so it wasn’t until she heard a painfully familiar voice that she stilled, her heart lurching into her throat. 

“ _And so it is that we ask you, our brothers and sisters, our friends, to join us in this new fight._ ” Xolani turned slowly in her seat, tears rising unbidden in her eyes as she stared at the familiar figure projected from Parrot’s holographic console. “ _We will take the fight to the Empire, and meet them in their ferocity, and we will fight so that others will not be asked to give their lives._ ”

“There is no contemplation,” Xolani whispered, saying the words along with the recording of Surro, something that must have lingered in Parrot’s memory core despite the damage they had endured over the years. “There is only duty.”

The image flickered and sputtered, and Parrot whined as it vanished, a disappointed sound that almost made her laugh through the tears. “I didn’t know you had any recordings of her,” she said, reaching out to smooth a hand over their plastex dome. “You miss her too, don’t you?”

Parrot beeped sadly.

Fighting back the tears, she smiled. “I know,” she said. “I know.”

____

The sun was setting, the sky a magnificent pink from the reflected light of Yavin Prime, but Ona’la didn’t feel like enjoying the view. Thexan had still not emerged from wherever he’d disappeared to, and she was near to frantic. She’d confined herself to the small balcony she’d found off of the library, because at the very least no one would be witness to her restless pacing as she waited.

This was ridiculous. She had no claim on Thexan’s time, no say in who he wanted to be or what sort of person he wanted to evolve into, so this desperate agitation and almost embarrassing neediness was nothing but selfishness on her part. She’d tried meditation, and she’d tried to reflect on the Code to find her centre again, but to no avail. 

She was sure if Master Orgus could see her now, he’d be nothing but disappointed in her. 

Someone cleared their throat from the doorway, and she spun around, startled. Lord Dara stood with her hands behind her back, a knowing look on her face despite the lack of emotion in her gaze. “Am I interrupting?” she asked politely. 

Ona’la shook her head, taking a deep breath before offering her a smile. “Not at all,” she said, clasping her hands before her so that she didn’t fidget. “Was there something I can do for you, Lord Dara?”

The other woman eyed her closely as she came slowly down the steps, and Ona’la couldn’t help but feel like she was peeling away the layers of her heart, peering into all the awkward, private corners inside of her. Which was absurd, of course, but her gaze was so penetrating and quite frankly unnerving that she couldn’t shake the idea. 

“I just wanted to advise you that owing to the difficulties my mother has caused, we have a shortage of accommodations at the moment,” she said casually- or as casually as someone like Lord Dara was capable of, at least. “Given your friendship with Prince Thexan, and your concern for his wellbeing, I have arranged for the two of you to share quarters. I assumed you would appreciate the opportunity to keep a better watch on him.”

Ona’la blinked. And then blinked again. “I... I do appreciate it,” she said weakly, even while her head was racing with the words _share quarters_. “I just... I can’t help but worry.”

Tahrin made an odd gesture with her hand, as if she was attempting to replicate some casual expression she’d seen others make in conversation and had no idea when to use it, or what it signified. Certainly Ona’la couldn’t fathom what on earth the gesture meant. “I have had my mother keeping watch over him,” she said easily, as if it were nothing extravagant to admit to having a Force Ghost spying on her brother. “She has influence enough to keep him from doing anything stupid, usually, and she has not intruded on his space.”

Thexan had spent the day being babysat by the ghost of one of the most powerful Force users in the history of the Jedi order. Would the oddities never cease?

She licked her lips, finding them dry. _Shared quarters_ , her mind whispered. “Is he... alright?”

Tahrin shrugged. “He is calmer,” she said. She pointed across the divide the waterfall had carved into the mesa, to the land on the far side of the bridge. “Of the two smaller ziggurats, you will find a ledge behind the right hand one, right beside the cliff face. There is a small bench, and some shade, and you will find him there.” 

Her heart leapt. “And... our accommodations?” 

“The ziggurat itself. Granted, the fittings are not extravagant, because we’ve spent most of our time outfitting the barracks, but-”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Ona’la said quickly, trying to ignore the way her stomach seemed suddenly full of fluttering butterflies. “Thank you, Lord Dara. I’ll see to him now.”

She went to move past her, and Tahrin turned her head to watch her. “If you stop in with Malavai in the main hall, he’ll see to it that you have something from the kitchens to take with you,” she said. “I’d wager he’ll be in need of something to eat.”

Ona’la couldn’t help the laugh, but she bit her lip immediately after. “You’d be surprised how hard it is to get him to eat sometimes,” she said, by way of explanation. 

“Indeed.” Tahrin stared at her, expression unreadable. “Perhaps ask Malavai to provide you with some pain medication as well. He may be in need of it.”

“He’s taken myocaine before without any side effects. And he has no allergies that I’m aware of.” 

Lord Dara didn’t respond, and after a moment’s awkward hesitation, Ona’la accepted that she wasn’t going to. With a nod in the other woman’s direction in place of thanks, she turned and headed back up the steps towards the main hall, trying to ignore the growing flutter of nerves in her stomach.

_Shared quarters._


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for non specific descriptions of abuse

His head was _killing_ him.

He was grateful for the breeze that had cooled significantly as the afternoon had worn on, because that at least relieved some of the discomfort he’d gotten himself into. The view was quite nice, when he had his eyes open, and the crumbling edge of the cliff a few feet from where he sat was oddly comforting, reminding him of the vast drop from the pinnacle of The Spire down to the planet below. It was a strange thing to take solace in, the rocky edge of a jungle mesa only a hundred feet or so above the treetops compared to the terrifying plummet from beyond the highest layers of the atmosphere. 

But it was a small familiarity, the promise of a world spread out at his feet, not in mindless supplication but as an offer of freedom. Not out of any sort of suicidal ideation, really, but just... knowing the choice was there, something that he could choose for himself, one of the _only_ things he could choose for himself.

How much things had changed, in such a relatively short space of time. 

He felt the tentative touch of her presence a few moments before he heard the footsteps, and he smiled tiredly; he didn’t open his eyes, but when he could tell she’d rounded the corner, he said “I was expecting you to come charging out after me some time ago, to be honest. I’m surprised you restrained yourself for so long.” 

She laughed softly, the sound a little embarrassed, and he cracked open an eye, squinting in the light of the setting sun. Ona’la stood at the far end of the bench he sat slumped on, a tray held carefully in her hands; there was a look of mild distress in her eyes that she tried hastily to cover once she saw him looking at her, offering him a bright smile instead. “Your- Lord Dara was quite insistent that I not crowd you,” she said, and it felt odd to say that he’d missed the sound of her voice when they’d only spoken that morning, but... so much had happened in the interim, it felt like a lifetime ago. 

He made a scoffing sound. “ _My_ Lord Dara,” he said, almost sullenly. “She is not _my_ anything.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“You meant to say ‘ _your sister_ ’,” he said, opening the other eye now and wincing as his head throbbed at the light. “And you took her at her word and deferred to her judgement when she implied she knew what was best for me.”

It was petty, childish, and on some level he was ashamed of himself for it; but he was very tired of being a puppet for others, and he was very irritable at the pain in his head.

He heard Ona’la’s hurt intake of breath, but she didn’t chide him, as he expected her to. Instead she quietly set the tray down on the bench, collecting a few items in her hands before turning to him. “Here,” she said, holding out a bottle of water to him; when he hesitated, she simply placed it in his lap, and picked up his hand in hers, closing his fingers over something in his palm. Her hands were warm, and soft. “Myocaine,” she said, “and water, because I’d wager the headache is just as much from dehydration as it is from the stress.”

After a moment he closed his eyes, shaking his head slightly as he laughed. “And yet you listened to her,” he said.

Ona’la sighed, the sound obviously frustrated. “Is this your very melodramatic way of telling me that you think she’s lying, and that she’s not your sister?”

“I-” Well. So she was going to chide him after all. “No, I think she’s telling the truth.”

“Then what is the problem, Thexan?” He opened his eyes again, and was proud of himself for not looking away guiltily when he met her gaze. The hint of hurt in her eyes made him feel wretched. “You said you needed space to think, and I gave it to you. If I’d chased after you and insisted you needed my company despite you saying otherwise, how is that any different to Lord Dara demanding that none of us are to go near you?”

It was too hard to hold her gaze, and he looked away. “It just is,” he said quietly.

“Are you actually _upset_ that I didn’t come after you?” 

“No, I’m-” He shook his head, staring at the uneven stone paving beneath his feet. “I don’t know.” 

Ona’la was quiet for a long moment, and he thought she might just give up and walk away; he couldn’t say that he’d blame her for it. Finally she moved, the rustle of her clothing as she knelt in front of him somehow absurdly unsettling. “Thexan,” she said solemnly, and he couldn’t escape from her now that she was so close, and kneeling in his line of sight, “please take the myocaine.”

“Please don’t do that,” he blurted out, his stomach lurching. 

She paused. “Don’t do what, Thexan?” she asked carefully.

He closed his eyes, both dismayed and embarrassed at the outburst. “Please don’t... kneel like that,” he said softly. “I don’t- I don’t want you to treat me like... that.” 

“Like a concerned friend?”

“I don’t want you to treat me like a _prince_ ,” he said, and Scyva he hated himself for how needy and pitiful it sounded to say aloud. “I’m not- better, I’m not _better_ than you, you don’t have to-”

“Shh.” He felt her hand smooth over his cheek, cupping his face in her palm; it was such a familiar gesture at this point, such a constant reminder of how much she cared and how _earnestly_ she cared. “It’s fine Thexan, I won’t do it anymore- just take a deep breath for me, let’s get our feet back under us before everything runs away from us.”

He always appreciated how she did that- we, us, our. Never isolating him in his struggles, always immediately assuring him that she was beside him in his weakest, most pitiful moments. He let out an explosive breath, the sound almost a laugh, and he hoped she didn’t notice how much he leaned into her touch. “I’m sorry,” he began, but she didn’t let him continue.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for, Thexan, it’s alright.” He felt her thumb brush over his skin, a whisper of intimacy in the gesture. “I’m going to move now, but I’m not leaving you, alright? I’m going to stand up, and I’m going to sit on the bench- is that alright?” 

_Look at how pathetic you are, that she speaks to you like she would a frightened child._

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

Her hand fell away from his face, and he was proud of himself for not whining at the loss; she put her hand on his knee as she stood, her fingers pressing down through the fabric of his pants as if branding him. There was a faint scraping sound as she slid the tray further down the bench, giving her room to join him, and then she was settling in beside him, her thigh sitting flush with his as her hand came to rest in between his shoulderblades. 

“Are you alright to take the myocaine?” 

His palm was sweaty, the two little tablets in his hand starting to grow sticky. “I guess.”

His hands were shaking a little as he unscrewed the top of the bottle, but Ona’la didn’t comment on it, her own hand rubbing soothing circles on his back. Trying to swallow them as quickly as possible didn’t seem to work in his favour, choking a little when he didn’t take enough of the water with them. 

“Are you alright?” Ona’la asked quietly after a moment.

Thexan chuckled shakily. “It’s just a bit of water,” he said.

“I meant in general,” she said, a hint of amusement in her tone. “You don’t exactly seem to have had the best day.”

“What gave you that impression?” 

She laughed softly, and it gave him the courage to smile a little. “If you’re making jokes, things can’t be that bad.”

He opened his eyes again, staring out over the vista in front of them; the setting sun had turned parts of the sky a vivid red, the light setting the gas clouds of Yavin Prime aflame. It was both breathtaking and deeply unsettling. “I... I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t really know what I should be feeling right now.”

“Do you want to talk about it at all, or should we leave it alone for now?”

He had no idea how she maintained such patience for him. “Why would you want to hear any of the nonsense going on in my head?” he asked quietly; he tried to say it like a joke, like the idea of it alone was laughable, but he couldn’t quite get the tone right. Instead it just sounded as pathetic as he felt.

She didn’t chastise him for his poor attempt at self-pity. “Because I’m your friend, Thexan,” she said. “And because I know you’re hurting, and I can’t take away the hurt for you, but I can help you carry it. It’s not nonsense when it means something to you, so it’s not nonsense to me.”

He supposed it was intended to comfort him, but if anything it only made him feel more vulnerable. “I didn’t say it wasn’t nonsense to me,” he said. 

“But you didn’t say it _was_.”

Stars, but she was relentless- she was like water washing over a stone, wearing away the jagged edges with persistence and patience until only a smooth surface remained. 

“I want to hear about it, if you need someone to listen, Thexan,” she said, the hand on his back still rubbing soothing circles between his shoulderblades. “If you’d rather we left it for now, that’s fine too. But I do want you to know that you’ve always got me, if you need someone to talk to.”

That was a remarkably powerful statement, and he wondered if she knew it- the only person he could have ever said that about before now was Arcann, and even then, he’d held things back. He’d always held things back, because that was the only way to survive. 

He breathed out slowly, keeping his hands hanging between his knees- if he tried to sit upright, if he moved his hands to rest on his thighs, he’d be too close to touching _her_ leg as well and he was far too tempted with the idea of letting his fingers span over the curve of her knee to want to push his luck. 

“Thank you for the myocaine,” he said quietly, so quietly that she had to lean in closer to hear him. “And the water. You were right, I- I was in need of both of them.”

He felt her nod over his shoulder. “I was sure you wouldn’t have had a chance to seek out any lunch at all, and that sort of emotional stress always makes my head ache too. I get weepy over a holodrama and I’m likely to have a headache for hours.”

Thexan didn’t know whether she deliberately shared such a weakness about herself to make him feel more at ease, or whether she was just so naively innocent that she didn’t see a problem admitting to such things. Maybe that was what friends did, sharing parts of themselves like that without fear of reprisals. 

“I...” He swallowed down the nerves, the moment of panic that screamed at him not to confess to such a flaw aloud. “I did cry. Quite a lot, actually.”

“That’s understandable,” she said gently. Just like that. No mockery, no judgement in her tone, just immediate acceptance. “I wish I could have been here for you.”

He laughed shakily. “I don’t think I would have coped so well having anyone witness that,” he said. 

“Grief is nothing to be ashamed of, Thexan.” Her hand had slid higher, more so that it was resting on his shoulder proper, as if she was about to hug him. “Neither is fear, or sadness.”

“Doesn’t your Jedi Code teach you that you shouldn’t feel them in the first place?”

She shook her head again, and for the first time he risked looking at her, trying not to flinch away from the earnestness in her gaze as her fingers rubbed slowly up and down on his other arm; it _was_ a hug, but he didn’t want to ask her to stop. “The Jedi Code is... simplistic,” she said, “and there are many ways to interpret it. But it has never asked us not to feel, because we are still living, breathing creatures, attuned to the living Force and made better for it. In my mind, and in the teachings of the masters I served as a youngling and a padawan, empathy is one of the greatest tools available to a Jedi, because if we hold ourselves apart from the very people we want to protect and serve, we become no better than Sith.” 

He thought of the cold, sterile tower amongst the stars that his father had dwelt in, glittering and powerful and physically looming above the common people as a metaphor for his greatness. He thought of the servants without names, who would not meet his eye when they spoke to him, the tutors who were instructional but never inspirational, as she seemed to think of her own teachers. 

“The warning in the code, of course,” she continued, unaware of his bleak train of thought, “is that we must not allow ourselves to be ruled by our emotions. It is inevitable that we will have moments of pain and anger and fear and doubt, no matter how fiercely we school ourselves, but it is far more important that we do not let such emotions guide our decisions.” 

She paused then, and there was a certain flush to her cheeks that implied she was embarrassed. “I mean, not that you asked for a lecture, or anything like that-”

“It’s alright,” he said, and he meant it. A year ago he might have sneered at her for her idealism, or at least found her tedious. Now, outside of his father’s influence and trying to learn how to think for himself, he found her refreshing. “I like listening to you talk.”

Ona’la giggled hesitantly, and he found himself smiling in return; he winced, a moment later, when the gesture pulled at his aching head. “I didn’t mean to monopolise the conversation, though, I came out here to see how you were,” she said. 

“That’s an ambiguous question.”

She huffed out a laugh, a more relaxed sound than the previous one; she squeezed him gently, just enough to have him rock slightly against her. Just enough for him to think that maybe it wouldn’t be a bad thing if he rested against her, let his head settle on her shoulder, that maybe she’d be okay with that. “And yet more joking,” she said, and there was something in her voice that sounded almost proud of him for that. “Things must be far better than I’d hoped if that’s the case.” 

“Maybe humour is just a coping mechanism,” he said, and he held his breath as he shifted slightly in her arms, enough that he was lying against her shoulder just a little. 

She didn’t object- in fact, she shifted to compensate, and he found himself with his head on her shoulder just as he’d considered aiming for, and her other hand seeking out the closest of his hands, twining their fingers together. 

“Thexan, I’ve had trouble getting you to even stop scowling these past few months, I would hardly say that you use humour as a coping mechanism.”

She was warm, and soft, and when he took a breath, he felt like he might drown in the scent of her. “What’s a few months in the context of a lifetime?” he asked softly. 

“You’re very talented at avoiding a conversation when you want to be.”

“I didn’t say I _wanted_ to talk about it, did I?”

“You didn’t say you _didn’t_ , and you _did_ start talking about it, before I distracted us with philosophy.”

“See, I’m not avoiding it, you’re simply distracting me.”

When she laughed, he felt the soft rumble of it beneath his cheek. “Alright then, no more distractions on my part.” He wondered whether she recognised the impossible task she’d set herself. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

Where could he even begin to explain the maelstrom of doubt and fear and self-loathing within him? “I think I believe Lord- Tahrin,” he said, correcting himself at the last moment. “I think we do share a father.” 

He felt her nod, her fingers squeezing his gently. “And how do you feel about that?” she asked. “Does it make it easier to think of your father as Valkorion, or as Vitiate?” 

“I prefer not to think of him at all,” he said, and then sighed. “I don’t know, it’s... complicated.”

When she didn’t press him to explain, he forced himself to go onwards anyway. “I never lied to myself and told myself my father was a good man. A great man, yes, but a great man does not have to be good. He was cruel, and he was distant, but he was powerful and I-” He swallowed uneasily, unsure of how she’d take the confession. “I was taken in by that, by the power and the control. I believed that we were better than the rest of the galaxy, that we had a right to establish ourselves as better through violence.”

“Your father was abusive and manipulative, Thexan,” she said, and he almost laughed. He hadn’t even told her Tahrin’s ludicrous theories about ancient Rakatan brainwashing that didn’t seem so ludicrous anymore after hours of reflection. “You weren’t given the opportunity to object to his ideas, you weren’t even taught how to think for yourself. You were physically and emotionally abused for the entirety of your life-”

“That, however tragic that makes me were I some badly written anti-hero in one of your holodramas, does not excuse the fact that I participated in unprovoked attacks on a number of worlds, and am directly responsible for the murders of countless Imperial and Republic citizens.” 

“That doesn’t preclude your ability to do good- I’m responsible for the deaths of tens of millions-”

He sat up abruptly, pulling away from the warmth of her embrace. “Ona’la, I’ve read your file extensively, and I heard your arguments in the courtroom back on Coruscant- and there is a _vast_ difference between taking lives with violent intent, as I did, and being outmatched by a far more powerful enemy determined to hurt you by any means necessary included taking innocent lives.” He was almost hurt that she would try to lessen his confession of guilt by attempting to add her own. “I’ve far more in common with Darth Angral in your situation, than you do with me.” 

She stared at him, and after a moment of silence he felt some of his frustration bleed away, left instead with awkwardness. “What?” 

“Nothing, it’s just...” She shook her head, smiling sadly. “You sounded like Theron, for a moment.” 

His brain pulled up the details without prompting- Theron Shan, son of the Grand Master, SIS agent, mockingly called Technoplague by some in the Empire. Jedi-trained despite being without Force abilities of his own. His file had made note of the fact that he had a propensity for finding himself in the company of twi’lek women, with Ona’la listed alongside a woman by the name of Teff’ith as potential weaknesses that could be exploited to kill or capture him. Despite being a dearly beloved public figure, Ona’la’s name had never featured that prominently in anyone else’s file. 

Only Theron’s. 

And now she was comparing him to him? He should probably have been flattered by the comparison to someone who was clearly close to her heart, but instead all he felt was an irrational surge of resentment... or jealousy, maybe. 

“It’s intent, Ona’la,” he said, shifting further out of her hold. Her hand was still on his back, as if she couldn’t bring herself to let him go, but it was the only place they were still touching. “You did not intend to kill those people you carry on your conscience. I did.”

“They’re still dead, Thexan,” she said quietly. “All of my good intentions won’t change that.” 

“I feel like we’re approaching this from entirely different angles,” he said. “We both killed people, Ona’la, but you never pursued death as a means to prove yourself. Death for you was a last resort, an accident. For me it was deliberate, the primary goal.”

“And why is it important to you to make that distinction?”

The frustration bubbled up in him. “Because I don’t want to _be_ that person anymore,” he snapped, his hands shaking as he rested his elbows on his knees and let his head come to settle in his hands. “You grieve because you made mistakes, but I- I have to live with the fact that I did- _things_ , awful things, and I did them deliberately and with malicious intent. It’s like- it’s like, um, waking up from a nightmare, only the nightmare was- _everything_ , you never have anything other than the nightmare to grow from, and being awake is disorienting and confusing and frustrating and I-”

He swallowed down the worst of the tirade, ignoring the tears that burned at his eyes. “I was- _am_ \- a monster, and I’m not saying that for- for your sympathy or whatever, it’s just- it’s the truth. My father was the greatest monster in history and my brother has no reason to continue his legacy of violence and yet he does, and my sister-” 

“Thexan.” Her fingers were firm beneath his chin, as she turned him to face her; her expression was solemn, and a little bit stern. “Do you honestly think I would befriend a monster?”

The question probably wasn’t intended to be funny, but he couldn’t help but look at her pointedly. “You absolutely _would_ befriend a monster, Ona’la, what kind of question is that? You’d take it as a challenge.”

Her cheeks flushed faintly, but she looked no less stern. “Would I trust a monster with my life?”

“Yes again. Without hesitation, you would.” 

“And don’t you think,” she continued, her gaze so intense that he would have looked away were it not for her hand holding his chin in place, “that my trust, and my friendship, are mine to give to whomever I desire? Don’t you think I’m right to choose who I give that gift to?”

He licked his lips, finding his mouth suddenly dry, and he didn’t miss the way her eyes flickered down to catch the movement. “I think you have a habit of trusting the wrong people,” he said, his voice almost hoarse. 

“I think you need to learn how to accept a gift freely given,” she countered. 

“Having your trust does not absolve me of the crimes I committed.”

That finally- _finally_ \- seemed to make a difference in the argument, because he felt the way she retreated from him. There was a great sadness in her eyes, the slowly deepening gloom of the evening turning them to a deep, fathomless indigo. 

He hated it. Not her eyes, but the grief there, and the knowledge that he was partially responsible for it. 

“I know,” she said quietly, letting go of his chin and sitting back. “I’m glad you know it too.” 

____

With the sky above them a riot of colours not unlike the first bloom of a bruise, Ona’la managed to coax Thexan from the bench with the intention of finding the quarters that Lord Dara had promised them. _Shared quarters_ , her brain supplied helpfully, and she quashed that thought as soon as it bubbled to the surface. With the night encroaching rapidly, the mesa was slowly lighting up from within, aglow with paper lanterns and ancient sconces that had not seen use in an age, and the distant hum of a generator over the rise where she’d briefly glimpsed neat rows of tents. Lord Dara had mentioned a barracks, so she didn’t know who the tents belonged to, or whether she had so many soldiers under her command that they spilled out over the mesa like ants spilling out of a nest. 

It unnerved her, to be honest. As upfront as Tahrin had been with them so far, she was still an intimidating woman, and the fact that she seemed to be two steps ahead of them at every turn did little to ease her. 

The smaller stone edifice that she’d indicated had a door facing towards the bridge, and Thexan followed her obediently as she balanced the tray in one hand and waved the other towards the doorpad, the ancient stone portal opening with far less noise than she’d been expecting. Thexan was subdued, almost pliant- but for a few moments during their conversation when his temper had gotten the better of him and he’d snapped at her, he seemed almost... broken seemed like the wrong word, and so did tamed, but she didn’t know how else to describe him. 

Bruised, maybe. As bruised as the sky above them. He wasn’t skittish like he’d been when she’d first met him, he wasn’t standoffish and confused like he’d been in the weeks following, he was just... quiet. Withdrawn.

Tahrin had warned her that the quarters weren’t extravagant, so given the slightly cluttered state of the rest of the mesa, she’d been expecting to find little more than a storage room with a few kit beds hastily wedged inside. What she wasn’t expecting in the slightest was to find a graciously appointed guest suite, with perhaps a few extra crates and storage chests than one might normally expect in guest quarters, but no less comfortable because of it. There were water features fitted into the stone walls, the gentle sound of the running water enough to drown out the outside noises like the generator, and plush rugs underfoot to cover the bare rock beneath their shoes. There was a wide, curved couch sitting before a polished wooden bench that looked to be some kind of personal bar, with vents along the front that she recognised as gas pipes for a fire place. There were library archives and crates of linens and she could even see the subtle glow of a holocron up on an upper tier- although how anyone was expected to reach the upper tiers short of a grappling hook was beyond her- and despite the clutter it was all very clean and all very fresh and it was clear that effort had gone into making the room as comfortable as possible.

Except that there was only one bed. 

Tahrin’s queries as to whether or not she’d be comfortable sharing quarters with Thexan very abruptly made far more sense. 

They both froze just inside the door, Ona’la with the tray of food balanced precariously in her arms and Thexan following so closely behind her that he almost bumped into her when she stopped. For several agonizingly long moments, neither of them said anything, and her heartbeat was so loud that she could feel it thumping in her lekku. 

When they spoke, they both spoke at once. 

“You can have the bed,” she said, at the same time that he said “I’ll sleep on the couch.” 

She laughed nervously at the same time that he very obviously cleared his throat, his face flushed and his gaze very pointedly avoiding hers. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I suppose Lord Dara must have made assumptions because of how I- well, I wasn’t-” 

“I think she got the idea from me,” he said abruptly, rubbing at his neck and looking everywhere in the room except her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for her to- I didn’t want-”

“It’s fine, Thexan, it’s fine-”

“I mean I don’t know what she said to you during the day-”

“Nothing, nothing, I swear, she didn’t say a word.” 

They stumbled back into the awkward silence- _there was only one bed_ \- and when Ona’la risked looking back at him, he had his eyes closed and an expression on his face as if he was desperately praying for the ground to swallow him up. She could relate to that feeling. 

Looking around, she spotted a small caf table in front of the curved couch, only marginally cluttered with odds and ends, and headed for that; she slid the tray onto the surface, hoping that the meal she’d organised for Thexan hadn’t gone cold in the time they’d been sitting outside. “Thexan, I’ll sleep on the couch,” she said loudly, trying to sound calmer than she felt. “It’s honestly fine, I’ve slept in far worse places over the years.”

He made a scoffing noise, crossing his arms over his chest in what she recognised as a defensive gesture. “If that’s the case, then really the argument should be that I’ve had better beds than you for far longer, so it’s definitely your turn to sleep somewhere better.” 

“I’m not arguing with you about this,” she said, shucking her outer robe and reaching up to unclip the wide ornamental collar that hid her scars from prying eyes. Setting them both down on the far end of the couch, she instead set about uncovering the food, the rich scents wafting up from the tray at least hinting that the meal was not entirely ruined. “I promised to be responsible for you and protect you-”

“I don’t need protection from a _couch_.” 

“I’m not depriving you of a bed in your sister’s own house.”

“Oh for-” He bit off whatever curse he’d been about to make. “You’ll make an effort to care about her opinion, but you won’t listen to mine?” 

“That’s...” She paused, pursing her lips in vague annoyance. “Alright, that’s a good point. I’m sorry.” 

He looked like he was about to keep arguing, his mouth hanging open as if part way through a word. “I... what? Just like that?”

Ona’la shrugged. “Are you not that used to winning arguments?” 

He stared at her, like he was expecting her to sweep his feet out from under him and laugh in his face. “So,” he said slowly, “that means you think I’m right, and that you’ll take the bed?”

She fought back the urge to sigh. “It means that yes, I think your point was more valid than my argument Thexan, but I didn’t necessarily agree to taking the bed. We can talk about it later.”

“Later than what?”

“You need to eat something, for starters, and I’m assuming there’s a refresher through that door there, so at the very least I’m going to take off my makeup because I got so emotional today that it’s probably been ruined for hours anyway.” It was clearly a more honest answer than he was expecting from her, given the way he stared, but she gestured magnanimously towards the couch. “Not as much variety as a buffet like in the _Doombringer’s_ canteen, I’ll admit, but I picked things I thought you would like.” 

He grunted in acknowledgement, and she left him to it, grateful when she did in fact find a refresher room beyond the door and hadn’t accidentally walked into a closet instead. It was clearly primitive, with some hasty modifications made- no shower cubicle, but instead a natural pool that was probably supplied from the same underground springs that were responsible for the waterfalls. At least the toilet amenities were modernised, and there was a cabinet that upon inspection was shown to have fresh towels and a supply of general toiletries like soap and oils. 

She was able to find a face cloth amongst the linens and scrubbed her face until she didn’t feel quite so clammy and sticky from the tears and the humidity. She would have preferred to take the time to clean up properly and more thoroughly, but the pool didn’t appear to be heated, and the thought of being naked while Thexan was only in the next room was a bit much for her at the moment. 

She certainly didn’t want to think about what she’d done the last time she’d been naked, the way she’d touched herself and imagined his hand in place of hers...

The water was cold enough that when she splashed herself violently in the face with it, the lingering hunger from those memories fled like smoke on the wind. Towelling her face and lekku dry, she tossed the face cloth into the linen basket and made her way back out to check on Thexan. 

He was at least making an effort to pick at the food once she emerged from the refresher, which both pleased and surprised her. She honestly hadn’t been entirely sure that he’d take to the idea of eating after the day he’d had, even if he was desperately in need of food; he’d gone often enough without food on the _Illustrious_ for her to know that he was well and truly capable of ignoring his meals should the mood take him. 

Instead, he was seated on the opposite end of the couch to where she’d discarded her robe and her collar, a genuine chunk taken out of the food on offer as if he’d dived in with enthusiasm. 

She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t a little bit smug about it. “Enjoying it?” she asked, reaching up and sliding her headpiece down the length of her lekku, tossing it onto the rest of her removed clothing. 

He watched her silently as he chewed, his eyes tracking her across the room as she removed her bracers as well; honestly, she should have gone for more casual apparel given the climate of Yavin, but she’d opted for formal since she’d assumed she would be meeting the Wrath as the Battlemaster. It was a bit unnerving having met Tahrin instead. 

Thexan swallowed, his fork hovering over the plate. “It’s adequate, I suppose,” he said, but the moment she raised an eyebrow his flat expression collapsed into a grin. “Stars, can’t you let a man just be stoic?”

“I _toiled_ over that meal for you for _hours_ -”

“You got it from the kitchens.”

“-and I’ll not have you disrespect my loving attempts at making sure you’re well fed and healthy.”

He pointed the fork at her. “So it’s _loving_ attempts to protect me from couches and starvation now, is it? And here I thought it was something about your noble vows and irrational sense of honour.”

She plopped down onto the couch, waving a hand dismissively. “No, no, by all means your Highness, reject my humble attempts at providing for you-”

Thexan leaned forward and very pointedly poked her knee. “I think the lady doth protest too much,” he said, and Ona’la couldn’t keep her laughter in any more. Apparently this delighted Thexan, if his own smile was anything to go by as he turned back to his meal.

She watched him eat for a few moments, head cocked to the side. “I’m sorry if it’s not what you’re accustomed to,” she began, but he waved a hand in her direction. 

“The extent of my food knowledge can be summed up in two categories,” he said, holding up his fingers to count them off. “One, extravagantly over the top delicacies that are hardly ever as good to eat as they look, but that appeal to the rich and powerful out of some jaded idea of novelty, and two, dehydrated field rations that I ate during our campaign into the Core Worlds. That’s it.”

“That’s it? So, what exactly does that mean, you’ve never had a burger and fries?”

“What the hell are fries?” 

She made a show of gasping in horror, putting her hands up to cover her mouth; a shyly embarrassed smile came over his face, and he ducked his head as if he was hoping she wouldn’t notice. He had a wonderful smile. “Tell me you’ve at least had chocolate,” she whispered conspiratorially.

“Of course I’ve had chocolate, that’s- wait, I should check, is that like, the dark, bittersweet stuff?”

“Some of it’s bittersweet, but not all of it. Are you telling me a chocolate fondue fountain doesn’t count as fancy rich people food?” 

“I don’t even know what that is, so I guess not.” 

She held up a finger. “Wait here,” she said, lunging off of the couch and tearing over to the bed, where their bags had been very politely stacked by one of Tahrin’s staff. When she glanced back at him, he was leaning his head back against the cushions, craning his neck to watch her as she rummaged through first one of her bags, and then another; she knew she was grinning deviously, and she was far too impressed with herself for what was essentially a very simple endeavour, but the relaxed smile on his face as he watched her made her want to find a hundred more reasons for him to keep smiling.

Finding the carefully hoarded stash at last, buried beneath some of her spare pairs of stockings, she carried the box back over to the couch, vaulting over the top and bouncing onto the cushions beside him. 

He had one foot up on the opposite knee, his plate all but teetering on his leg; when she landed on the cushions, she half expected the remaining food to go sliding off the plate and onto the floor. Instead, he rather instinctively lifted it up out of harm’s way, his eyebrows rising as he took in her exuberance. “I take it I’m about to have my life changed forever,” he said wryly. 

She bit her lip to hold back the giggle. “Food can be life-changing, especially if that food is chocolate,” she said with false solemnity. “I’m going to guess you haven’t had nougat either?”

“Correct.”

The little box in her hands was bronzium, with swirling designs etched onto the lid to impart the mark of the chocolatier who made them- the same mark that could be found on the sweets themselves. The box wasn’t full, because even though it had been full when they left Coruscant, that was still numerous days behind them, and even a Jedi had some little pleasures they liked to indulge.

“You can’t tell anyone I have these,” she said conspiratorially, and Thexan shook his head, rolling his eyes as he smiled. 

“Is it the keys to the Republic Senate Tower? No, don’t tell me, let me guess, it’s a kyber memory crystal that holds the power to access every Jedi holocron in existence-”

“It’s chocolate,” she said, “and it’s very expensive chocolate that a single Zeltron family has been making for generations with a secret recipe, and they have a shop on Coruscant.” 

“And you stole the secret recipe and it’s hiding in the box?”

She slapped him gently on the shoulder. “I won’t share at this rate,” she said warningly. 

“Oh, but Battlemaster, I was ever so good and ate all of my supper, don’t I get a treat?” 

Goddess preserve, but she was flirting with him, and he was flirting back, and it was _wonderful_. She felt giddy, and breathless, and she kept wanting to break out into silly giggles. “Hmm, I suppose I can let you have one,” she said loftily, as if she was carefully considering it and weighing up the pros and cons. 

“How generous of you. I’m sure I’ll never be able to repay you.”

She pried open the box, holding it out towards him. “I’m sure I’ll think of something,” she said, arching her eyebrows as if daring him to up the ante. 

He didn’t take his eyes off hers the entire time he reached out into the box and drew out a single chocolate, bringing it slowly up to his mouth; she realised at some point that she was holding her breath, but she couldn’t quite find it in her to correct the situation immediately. It was far more important that she watch the way he placed the chocolate on his tongue, his lips slowly closing around it in a way that was absolutely deliberate, of course it was, but goddess help her if she could find it in herself to look away. 

Her heart was beating a tattoo on the inside of her ribcage as she watched him patiently chew and swallow, as if he was savouring the flavour of the treat for future reflection. 

Finally he smiled lazily, and she felt a shiver go down her spine. “It’s adequate,” he said, the smile turning into a devious grin. 

She hit him with a cushion. 

The conversation was light and broken up by laughter as he continued picking at his food, making an effort to clear away as much of it as possible before it grew too cold to enjoy. Ona’la, for her part, snacked sparingly on her beloved chocolates, very pointedly announcing that she wouldn’t be sharing them for the foreseeable future. 

As the evening wore on, Thexan’s mood dropped off again, darker and more contemplative like it had been earlier. It was inevitable, she supposed- he’d been struggling with so much since the moment they’d met, the trauma and the anxiety and the depression, and despite the answers he might have found here with Tahrin, it hadn’t been easy to uncover them.

There was only so much she could do to keep the darkness at bay, even as she wished she could clear it away for him entirely. 

He put the plate down on the table in silence, his expression stormy; when he didn’t look at her, she could tell something was plaguing him, and she decided to make it easier for him. “Thexan?” When he still didn’t look at her, she pressed onwards. “What’s wrong?”

He breathed out slowly through his nose, his fingers flexing as if he was resisting the urge to clench them into fists. “Can I ask you something?” he said finally, his voice hesitant.

“Something other than that, I’m assuming?”

She saw the walls come down behind his eyes, and he sat back against the cushions. “Never mind,” he muttered.

“No, no, Thexan, I’m-” She realised she was reaching for him without even thinking, and she pulled her hand back before she made contact. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have tried to make light of it.” When he kept staring at his hands, she gave up and reached forward, putting her hand over his wrist. “Please, Thexan, I’m sorry. What did you want to ask?”

For a long moment he thought he was going to ignore her, dig in his heels and refuse to answer, but when he looked at her, there was something so vulnerable in his expression that it took her breath away. 

“Vitiate,” he said, and it sounded like he had to force the words out. “What was it like?”

She blinked, something unpleasant settling in her belly. “I... I beg your pardon?”

He grimaced, as if there was something unpleasant tasting in his mouth. “Vitiate,” he repeated quietly. “Tahrin thinks... she is of the opinion that my father intended to- uh, _use_ my body, or Arcann’s maybe, but I died first and it-” He visibly struggled for a moment, running a hand over his head as if it was suddenly aching. “Obviously we can’t know for sure, but it would explain why I was- why I was kept alive, and uh... secret. And then why the Imperial Guard tried to kill me, because I was an, um.... I was a loose end, or- or something. Couldn’t have me exposing his plans, he never intended to live as Valkorion for much longer and I- I was just...” 

He trailed off, and when he looked at her again, Ona’la felt like he was staring into the heart of her. “You survived it,” he said softly. “So, I guess I just... wondered.” 

She took a deep breath. “Oh.” 

_Remarkably eloquent, Ona’la, well done._

He winced. “I’m sorry, if it’s too much, I shouldn’t have-”

“No, no, it’s- um... it’s okay.” There was adrenalin humming through her, unpleasant enough to make her shiver, and she drew her knees up to chest and hugged them tightly. “It’s not like I’ve never talked about it before, I had numerous psychological evaluations when I returned to the Republic after it... after.”

Thexan didn’t say anything, simply watched her. 

“I don’t even know where to begin,” she admitted.

He shrugged. “I thought that was my line,” he said, gently teasing. 

She appreciated the attempt at levity. “It was...” She laughed shakily. “It was different, for me, compared to the other Jedi who journeyed with me. The rest of them, they fell easily enough, and he acted through them like they were his macabre little puppet show, but I...”

“Yes?”

“I fled from him,” she whispered. “I fled into myself, because I couldn’t- the touch of him, in my head and in my spirit, was just so...” She brushed away the tears that had gathered on her lashes, a pointless gesture given that they were quickly replaced. “Someone used the term rape at some point, during my recovery and my sessions with the medics, but I- I don’t know if that word is right. It wasn’t like I was... he never did anything physically to me, I don’t think, so I feel somewhat, um...”

She struggled for a moment, fighting to swallow down the hiccuping sobs that were pressing up in her mouth. “He was in me, and touching every part of me, but I mean, it’s not- I don’t know, I don’t know that that word is right for me, I don’t want to dismiss or talk over people who’ve gone through actual-”

“Ona’la.” He was sitting closer than she remembered, and he had a single hand over her wrist, just one point of contact, nothing more. “It’s not a discussion in semantics. It’s okay.” 

She took a shuddering breath. “He was _everywhere_ , and so I hid, deep inside myself, where he couldn’t touch me,” she whispered, the tears coming more freely. “And I stayed there, because I was a coward, I stayed there for _months_ , because I couldn’t- I didn’t want-” 

“Shh.” And then he was there, his arms around her and drawing her into his embrace. “Gods, Ona’la, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for... I’m so sorry.”

With her face hidden against his shoulder, it was easy just to let go, to let the storm of weeping overtake her for a moment and give in to the pain and the fear and the shame of her memories. His hands seemed so large, one flat against her back and the other cradling her head at the base of her lekku, and his arms seemed so safe. 

What a novel concept- _safe_. Even more remarkable that it should be with him, of all people. 

“I’m so sorry,” he repeated, over and over like a mantra. “I didn’t want to hurt you. I’m so sorry.” 

She wept, because even though she’d had years to process her imprisonment, not even a lifetime would be enough to rid her of the strangling horror that was the crushing, intimate evil of Vitiate’s touch. 

How strange it was that the one time she didn’t feel quite so alone in her trauma, it was with the creature’s son to hold her through the worst of it. 

And how oddly wonderful it was to fall asleep in his arms.

____

He was trying excessively hard to stay awake, but he kept drifting off; it was, however, vastly important that he not fall asleep entirely because Ona’la was currently fast asleep on the couch- and half on top of him, if he was honest- and he’d be damned if he’d let her win the argument about who was getting the bed. 

He rubbed at his eyes with his thumb and his forefinger, trying to scrub the sleep from his lashes. “Come on,” he mumbled, shaking her half-heartedly. “You have to go sleep in the bed.”

Her response was something nonsensical and sleepy, accompanied by her shifting until she was further snuggled into him, all but pinning him to the couch. He groaned, only partly in exasperation. “Get up,” he said, and he was well aware how whiny he sounded, “go to bed.”

Ona’la didn’t answer, already fast asleep again.

Grumbling, he took a moment to gather his wits before slithering out from under her, trying to ignore the way his heart leapt at the sad little noise she made at the disruption. On his feet, he stretched for a moment, his arms reaching towards the distant roof; his scar ached across his stomach, no surprise there. It always seemed worse when he’d had more stressful days. 

Turning back to the couch, his heart flip flopped again at the sight of Ona’la lying splayed across the cushions he’d been using only moments earlier. She didn’t look particularly dignified, or elegant, but she was beautiful, and the fact that she seemed to keep trusting him with moments like this made something in him ache, something other than his scar. 

Biting back a sigh, he bent and slid his arms beneath her, hushing her when she murmured sleepily and drawing her up into his arms; she was heavier than she looked, a reminder that the curves beneath her robes were just as much muscle as anything. For a moment he was worried his grip was wrong, and that she was going to topple back onto the couch, rudely awoken because he’d damn well dropped her. 

Then she relaxed into him, her face snuggled into the space beneath his chin, and he sighed with relief. 

His shoulder still felt damp and sticky where she’d wept against him, but he hadn’t wanted to disturb her until she’d calmed down. He felt so disgustingly wretched for having upset her in the first place, and he’d cursed himself to Nahut’s darkness and back for causing her so much pain; he’d _felt_ it, he’d felt the immensity of the skin-crawling horror she felt for the memories, and it sickened him that someone so good and so gentle and so kind could be subjected to something so vile in the first place, but also that he’d been stupid enough to bring it up. 

He’d thought to better understand the motivations of the creature he called father, to maybe puzzle out if his existence had meant anything to him other than as passing amusement, or a playing piece in his galactic game of war and anarchy, but instead he’d hurt her. The one person whose opinion mattered to him right now, he’d hurt her. 

Stars, but he was such a fucking idiot. 

He carried her over to the bed, and went to set her down on top of the blankets, only for the unexpected to occur- she had her hands wrapped tight in the front of his tunic, and when he leaned over, she didn’t let go. He overbalanced, and dropped her, falling halfway across her and only stopping himself from crushing her with quick reflexes that had him instead held up on an elbow above her. 

She murmured sleepily, moving beneath him in a way that was making certain parts of his brain- and his body- think along lines that were not at all appropriate given the evening she’d had. Gritting his teeth, he went to carefully ease himself back, only for one of her lek to twine around his wrist. 

_Oh, come on._

“Ona’la,” he said gently, from between gritted teeth, “you have to let me up.”

She sighed breathlessly as she shifted again, all but nuzzling against him. “Stay,” she mumbled, her breathing dropping off almost immediately as she drifted back into deeper sleep.

He stared at the headboard of the bed, as if it would miraculously give him the answers he needed. “We both still have our shoes on,” he said, raising his voice a little to try and rouse her. No response. “Ona’la?” 

Predictably, she didn’t answer. 

He grunted. “Tyth give me strength,” he muttered, before pushing back to settle all his weight on the knee on the bed, trying to peel the- admittedly adorable- lek from where it seemed determined to remain coiled around his wrist. He got the impression that the movement of her lekku wasn’t always entirely a conscious choice on her part, and he wondered whether her cheeks would flush prettily if he told her the next morning how fiercely she’d tried to keep him with her. 

With enough effort, he finally got free, and staggered back from the bed, fumbling for a moment as he tried to find his balance. Rightly pleased with himself for winning the argument and making sure Ona’la had the bed instead of him, he still paused as he looked down at her. 

Her face was still a little puffy from the tears, and she looked different without all of her usual embellishments. No headpiece to frame her face, no collar to hide her scars, no striking purple or gold paints to shape her features. He wasn’t foolish enough to fall prey to hollow compliments about how much better she looked without it all- after all, she clearly wore it because it was important to her, for whatever reason, so he wasn’t going to dismiss that. But it was... nice, he decided, to see her like this; even if he never got to see it again, it was somewhat humbling to be trusted with this private moment. 

He rubbed tiredly at his face, eyeing her heavy boots on the bed before sighing. “This doesn’t count as undressing you,” he said aloud, as he tried to slide the shoes off as carefully as possible without waking her. “You can keep the stockings on- although, stars above, actually, they smell pretty bad, you’re probably grateful you’re not awake to hear me say that, I’m taking them too and just...” He looked around. “I’ll just put them by the door instead of near the bed. But I’m stopping there. The rest of the clothes are staying on, and I’m going to go and sleep on the couch.” 

He turned away and went to head towards the couch. It was warm enough despite the late hour that he could probably make do without a blanket, and there were plenty of cushions he could use as pillows. 

“Thexan?” 

The sound of her voice had him stumbling, and he caught himself before he fell. She sounded sleepy and lethargic, and it sent a shiver through him. When he turned back to the bed, her eyes were still closed, but she was quite clearly half awake. “Yes?” he asked.

“Don’t go,” she said quietly, the words almost slurring together. “Come back.” 

He paused for a long moment, even as his heart surged in his chest. “You don’t mean that,” he said finally. “Just get some rest, Ona’la.”

“Please?” 

_Tyth, you utter bastard._

He toed his boots off over by the couch, shucking his socks off with them; after a moment of agonising over whether it was appropriate or not, he pulled the tunic up off over his head as well, rubbing at the spot on his shoulder that was still faintly clammy from her tears. It felt better to have it off, but he hesitated beside the bed; she was barely awake, so it wasn’t like she was making the most informed decisions about consent right now, and he just... what if she woke up in the morning, too groggy to remember the events of the night before and panicked when she found him in the same bed as her? 

She’d asked him to stay, but he didn’t want to hurt her again. Would it hurt her more to say no, or would her common sense rear its head in the morning and insist that this was entirely wrong of him? 

_If you’re asking that question, you already know the answer._

“Thexan?” She had a hand out towards him. “Please?” 

It was a big bed- it was far bigger than the bed they’d accidentally shared on the _Doombringer_ , there was plenty of room for him to keep to himself. They wouldn’t even come into contact if he kept his mind to it. It’d be fine. 

Except that when he finally relented and crawled down onto the bed, settling onto his back and staring up at the roof, she immediately turned into his side, cuddling in close like they’d been on the couch. She was fast asleep within moments, ever so faintly snoring as her head rested on his shoulder. 

He hesitated for a long, long moment, listening to her breathing in the darkness, and then finally, tentatively, he let his arms come up around her. His shoulder was already going to sleep where she was resting on it, and it wasn’t the most comfortable angle, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. 

He fell asleep with her lek curled around his wrist again.


	30. Chapter 30

“It’s your own damn fault.”

Ellaz groaned from where she had her face pressed down onto the galley tabletop- which, Theron had to say, was either intensely brave or immensely stupid, given the activities that had gone on on that very tabletop just the night before, and (knowing the captain of the vessel) were probably regular occurrences. “I hardly think that sort of attitude is called for,” she mumbled, otherwise not moving. 

Theron grinned to himself, feeling mischievous. He’d travelled on Bobbi’s ship often enough to know the quirks and hidden imperfections that had been hastily patched up with spacer’s tape, so maybe it was a little petty of him to deliberately reach for the overhead compartments in the galley that he knew were going to squeak when he opened them, but... a man had his petty moments, after all. Listening to the Major moan loudly and pathetically from the dining area while he made amused eye contact with her husband as he deliberately went through the cupboards two or three times over while making his caf was honestly one of the most amusing things he’d done in months. 

“You seem out of sorts, Major,” Theron called, probably a little louder than was necessary, but the way Aric smirked into his mug of tea at her whimper of pain made it worth it. “Is something wrong?”

“I don’t understand how she can drink so much and not be dead,” Ellaz moaned, her words slightly slurred together from the aftereffects of the night before. “She’s _older_ than me.”

“Now, now, dear, let’s not dismiss the contribution our elders can make to a conversation,” Aric said calmly- and if Theron wasn’t mistaken, at a slightly louder volume than normal as well. “Isn’t that what you’re always saying to me, when you tell me how lucky I am to have married an older woman?” 

“I not an _older_ woman, I am a _mature_ woman of forty-three-”

“Who spent the better part of last night trying to drink one of the most infamous smuggler captains in the Outer Rim under the table,” Theron finished, spotting a packet of dehydrated noodles in a top hatch and pulling them out to munch on them uncooked. They were mildly spicy but it was fine, it totally counted as a wholesome breakfast if he had a caf as well. “As a _mature_ woman of forty-three, I would’ve hoped that you’d know how to accept defeat gracefully, but here we are.”

As if on cue, the internal comms system crackled loudly, and Ellaz all but started weeping onto the tabletop. “A very hearty good morning to all of our passengers today,” came a ridiculously cheerful voice over the comms, “this is your captain speaking, and joining me today for our flight is First Officer Riggs- say hello, Corso, be polite to the nice people-”

“Hello everyon-”

“That’s enough, Corso, no one wants to hear you drone on like that, I’m not paying you by the word.” The comms squealed again, and Theron absolutely knew this time that it was deliberate, hiding his laughter behind a cough when Ellaz raised bloodshot eyes from the table to glare at him. “We’ll be coming up on the Yavin system in approximately half an hour, local time is currently I-have-no-idea, and the weather is a balmy why-would-I-know-that, so I hope you’ve packed appropriately. Maybe shorts, who knows.”

“How can she be so _cheerful_ when we drank so _much_?” Ellaz said from between gritted teeth. 

“Bobbi is a very special woman,” Theron said with a deadpan expression, “and I _did_ say I told you so.”

“No you didn’t.”

“I’m saying it now.”

From the bridge, Bobbi continued with her spiel over the comms, clearly enjoying herself. “We’d like to thank you for choosing to fly with Voresh Spaceways, your credits are important to us, or more specifically me, and we hope you’ve enjoyed your time with The Wife.” 

Theron glanced over at Risha, who despite the early hour and the fact that she was wearing a fluffy pink sleeping robe over the top of her pyjamas as she sat at the bench, still managed to look immaculately presented. Makeup flawless and hair perfectly coiffed, as if she was waiting to be called for a glamour shoot. “Didn’t know you guys had gotten hitched,” he said.

Risha didn’t even look up from the trashy socialite page she was reading on her datapad, chewing absently on her muesli. “She’s not talking about me,” she said, “if she was talking about me, she would have used the phrase ‘ _Her Esteemed Majesty of Dubrillion’s Official Side Piece_ ’. That’s currently her favourite.”

“That’s a mouthful.”

“See how good I’m being and not rising to take that bait,” she said serenely, scrolling slowly through her gossip pages. “The Wife is what she calls the ship.” 

He took a large bit of the noodles, crumbs scattering on the floor at his feet. “So I didn’t miss some kind of fancy shindig?”

Risha sighed rather dramatically. “Sweetheart, there’s always some kind of shindig going on in these parts, but no, in answer to your question, you did not miss a wedding.”

“Thank the Force,” he said, and when she glanced questioningly at him, an eyebrow raised, he said “I didn’t want to have to buy you guys a present.”

“I’ll tell her you were worried.”

“Stars, please don’t, she’ll send me a gift registry list for like, Denear’s or something, and I don’t even own any clothes fancy enough to be allowed in there to shop in the first place.” Bowdaar picked that moment to wander into the galley, and in a manner contrary to what Theron knew most wookiees preferred, was wearing clothing. Specifically, he was wearing boxer shorts. With what looked like cartoon trandoshans all over them. 

Realising after a moment that he was staring in vaguely horrified fascination in the general direction of a wookiee’s junk, he cleared his throat and took a big swig of his caf as he quickly glanced away; Risha, damn her, was far too observant for her own good- even half awake and reading a gossip column-, and laughed at him. 

“See something you like, Shan?” she asked as Bowdaar rooted around in the conservator for breakfast of his own.

“I don’t even want to ask,” he said, very pointedly staring at the roof instead of anywhere near the wookie wearing silken boxer shorts with cartoon lizard folk on them. 

Bowdaar growled out a few words as he reappeared with a bowl of what looked like some kind of meat sauce that you’d serve with pasta, and Theron raised his eyebrows at both his choice of breakfast and his words. “A compromise for what?” he asked skeptically. “Why would she offer... _that_ , as a compromise to anything?”

“Wookiees and Trandoshans don’t get along,” Risha said, taking another bite of her muesli. “Bowdaar had this one in particular that he definitely didn’t get along with. Won a fight, wanted to kill him and skin him. Bobbi talked him down from it, said she didn’t want the cargo hold to smell like lizard goop for the next six months-”

Bowdaar grunted almost petulantly.

“Yeah, well, just because _you_ like the smell of it doesn’t mean the rest of us do,” she said in response. “Anyway, because furball here got all sad that he couldn’t drape himself in fancy new lizard skin belts, Bobbi went and found the only Trandoshan themed piece of clothing on the entire holonet and bought it for him, so he could wear that instead.”

The wookiee growled again, the sound remarkably pleased. 

“You are all _talking so loud_ ,” Ellaz mumbled from the table. 

Aric, settled at the table beside her, continued to sip his tea without even a flicker of emotion on his face, but Theron didn’t have to be Force sensitive to feel the waves of smugness pouring off of him. “Dear, if you’ll recall, I _did_ point out at the time that imbibing like that was not going to be good for you.”

“Who are you, Dorne? Did she have you memorise that?”

“We’re not on vacation, dear,” he said, with the slightest hint of censure in his tone. “We’re supposed to be on duty for an undercover op.” 

Ellaz finally sat upright, wincing almost comically as she put a hand up to her forehead. “The honour of my honour was on the line-”

“Very eloquent, darling.” 

After meeting with Ardun as per their request- which Theron had copped a little heat for, to be honest, and he was still smarting a little from that- Ellaz had agreed to follow up on the fear that the Battlemaster was in danger. Zakuul’s march across the Outer Rim was slower than anticipated, despite their superior fleet capabilities, and Republic High Command had refused to commit a spec ops squad as experienced and irreplaceable as Havoc to the front when the front mostly consisted of independent systems outside of Republic control. The Republic- or, more pointedly, Saresh- seemed more than content to let other folk do the dying for them, a point that he had had to hear Ellaz rant furiously about the day before. 

The Major seemed to find the concept of preserving their strength to be laughable when the cost of doing so allowed Zakuul to gain a foothold closer to the Core Worlds. She had said as much, at length and very loudly, while Aric had done his best to calm her down. 

He’d always thought folk were supposed to be calmer and wiser when they got older, but Ellaz seemed determined to prove th- oh, wait, Bobbi. Nevermind. 

They were trying to keep this as lowkey as possible, and to that end apart from the Major and the XO the only squad member of Havoc along for the ride was the Gand fellow named Yuun. Theron hadn’t really encountered a lot of Gand in his time, and given that Yuun mostly kept to himself, this trip hadn’t changed much. When he’d queried the absence of the rest of the team, Ellaz had summed it up fairly succinctly- Vik and 4X couldn’t be used for covert ops, because neither of them seemed to understand the meaning of subtlety, and Dorne was on thin ice often enough with her citizenship status for them to risk dragging her along on an unauthorised op deep into Imperial territory. 

He thought it was a bit rich that someone like Ellaz had the gall to say someone else didn’t have a knack for subtlety, but hey, he wasn’t really one to judge either. 

Unable to use Havoc’s Thunderclap- since it was such an iconic and easily recognised vessel- Theron had instead called on an old friend. An old friend with suspiciously advanced tech in her ship, some of which had to be either illegally acquired military hardware or just outright space magic. Which had led them to now, about to drop out into a potentially hostile situation with their commanding officer dangerously hungover. 

So, really, this was about standard for his missions. 

He drained the last of his caf and dumped the mug in the sink, ignoring Bowdaar’s passive aggressive grunt about kitchen courtesy. “See you up on the bridge,” he said, sketching a vague salute towards Ellaz and Aric. The XO responded in kind, but Ellaz had her eyes covered with her hands, and didn’t see him as he exited. 

The plan was simple enough, and he tried to ignore the nagging sense of trepidation that was kicking around in his gut like the aftermath of the lunch special at a Nal Hutta buffet. Ona’la wasn’t some helpless ingenue, unable to defend herself, and she did have Master Xo with her as well... but she was _incredibly_ naive when she wanted to be, and stubborn about it too. They’d had more than one argument in the past about her relentless need to believe in the best in people, and it had never ended with any concessions on her part other than a vague promise to be careful. Of course, that was never _his_ definition of careful, and so they kept cycling round again to the argument. 

Back in the crew quarters where he’d taken up a spare bunk, the Mon Calamari crew member was sprawled half asleep and hanging off the edge of his own bed, the sheets wrapped around one of his legs. 

Theron pulled all of his gear together as quietly as he could, sliding his blasters into his holsters and his vibroknife to the sheath on the side of his calf. He’d recalibrated all of his implants before they’d left Coruscant, so everything was functioning perfectly for now; it was a nice change. Two of them he’d had replaced about six months ago, the scar tissue from his time with the Revanites aggravating the originals far too much for them to stay in place without further inflammation. 

Hopefully it’d be a while before he had to get any more replaced- or, at least, that he wasn’t replacing them as a result of days worth of incessant torture.

There was the niggling trace of guilt hiding in the back of his mind, because he knew how hurt Ona’la would be if she thought he didn’t trust her. And it wasn’t that at all, he _did_ trust her, he just... didn’t trust a whole lot of other people in this damned galaxy, and she seemed to go out of her way to involve herself with the people who were just going to hurt her all the worse for it. 

Case in point, the damned Wrath herself, even after how much trouble Scourge had caused her over the last few years. 

Or her new pet prince, who he absolutely wasn’t jealous about at all because he definitely didn’t think of Ona’la that way at all, but... kriffing stars, she certainly had a talent for picking them. He’d be lying if he said it didn’t hurt and frustrate him, the way she kept putting herself on the line for these assholes without a backward glance. 

Well, that wasn’t happening this time, because there was more at stake right now than Ona’la and her bleeding heart complex, and they couldn’t afford for her or the leverage the prince provided to just go awol on a whim. If she objected to him following her, she should have kriffing well said something before she’d vanished in the middle of a war, five minutes after getting rescued. 

He felt the gentle shudder of the ship as they passed out of hyperspace and back into real space, Bobbi’s ship making the shift surprisingly seamlessly despite how battered she looked at a glance. All that misappropriated tech, he supposed. 

He was tugging on his boots when he heard the telltale click of the comms system, and then a moment later he heard Bobbi clear her throat. “Heeeeey guys,” she said, with the sort of awkward reluctance that told him immediately that something was wrong, “so, uh, if you all wanted to come on up to the bridge, that’d be just dandy by my reckoning.”

Sighing, Theron climbed to his feet.

“Except Bowdaar, if you could man the main turret, and Risha to the engine room? That’d be super.” 

That was less good. 

He headed out into the hallway, almost bumping into Yuun as he did so; damn bug moved quiet for someone in heavy armour. “Agent Shan,” he said, in that peculiar chirping language that sounded a little like cicadas screaming in distant forests. He didn’t say that, of course, because that would be rude and Ellaz would probably slap him on the back of the head. “The way ahead is clouded- it is most intriguing.” 

Theron offered him a weak smile as they headed towards the bridge. “Wouldn’t exactly be here if things were all sunny skies and smooth sailing,” he said pointedly. 

“Sometimes a storm is refreshing, and the rain washes away the dust so that we may see what lies beneath.”

“That’s... well, that’s certainly one way of looking at it.” 

Ellaz and Aric were already on the bridge by the time he got there, both of them wearing gear without the standard orange Havoc insignia emblazoned on their chests. They were actually downright discreet with their armour choices, both wearing camo gear despite it still being durasteel plate, and neither of them had a single Republic stamp on them either. Not that there was any chance that the troops down in the Coalition camp wouldn’t recognise them on sight, but it gave them a level of separation from the Republic. 

A teeny, tiny sliver of one. That had to count for something, if the need for plausible deniability came up.

Bobbi’s usual happy-go-lucky grin had been replaced with a far more serious expression, lines of tension around her mouth as she held steady on their current bearing; beyond the viewport, the unsettling seething blue of hyperspace had been replaced with an inky black backdrop, a large red gas giant monopolising the view. No one looked happy- Ellaz was even scowling as she chewed on a fingernail, and Aric very pointedly reached up and removed her hand from her mouth, earning him an even more fierce scowl that he merely flicked his ears at, as if unconcerned. 

“What’s the go, then, kids?” Theron said, coming to a stop behind Bobbi’s chair. She was wearing a sleeveless vest, despite the cold that lingered in the ship, and even though there were a handful of darker age spots speckled over the top of her shoulders, her arms were still intimidatingly muscled. “Why the party?”

“We’ve got two Imperial Star Destroyers holding steady at about half a million clicks out from Yavin Prime,” Bobbi said, her voice low. She flicked her hair out of her face, the blond far too bold and brassy to be natural at her age. Damn if she didn’t make it work though. “As luck would have it, we’ve come in on the opposite side of the system, so we’ve got that big ball of gas blocking us for visuals- so for the moment, we should be able to glide in all quiet like without them noticing.” 

Ellaz’s face was set like stone, her dark eyes cold. “Coalition force on Yavin didn’t report any significant increase in Imp activity in this sector,” she said, and Theron could practically hear her thoughts turning over rapidly with the list of people she was composing to shout at.

“Could be they’ve only just arrived, like us, and word hasn’t reached your office yet,” he said dubiously.

“Or, it could be like you said, and the Wrath lured our Battlemaster into a goddamn trap,” she said, jaw clenching. 

Bobbi seemed to be in captain mode, her brow furrowed as she flicked a couple of switches on the console in front of her. “We’ve got another stationary structure, in orbit over Yavin 4.”

“A ship?”

“I’m thinking a space station,” she said absently, attention locked instead on the screens and the assorted readouts; some of them didn’t look like traditional scanner output to him, and he had to wonder exactly what she had plugged into her ship. “Hard to get a lock on it, it’s in a bit of a blind spot for our sensors.” 

Beside him, Aric grunted. “We didn’t have any reports from our people that there was a space station,” he said, voice ominous. “That’s not the sort of thing you can move into place over a few days, so this is definitely something bigger than them coincidentally arriving at the same time as us.”

“You think our people on the ground have been compromised?” Ellaz asked grimly.

“It’s a possibility,” Theron said. “It’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”

Bobbi nodded. “You got coordinates for your little camping trip?” She jerked her head towards Corso in the passenger seat. “Sparky here will get us a trajectory so we can keep Yavin Prime between us and those star destroyers for as long as possible, give us longer to stay as functionally invisible as possible.”

“Sparky?” Corso said with the sort of horrified resignation of someone well used to Bobbi’s ways.

“Hush, Sparky, I pay you to look pretty and you’re doing a bad job already. That’s coming up in your next workplace assessment.”

“Didn’t you say your ship was fitted with a cloaking device?” Ellaz said loudly, talking over the top of Bobbi’s theatrics. 

She scoffed. “Sure, but the fucker is expensive to run, and if they’re smart enough to be scanning for any sort of magnetic fluctuations, they’ll sure as hell notice a blind spot on their radars mysteriously following a set trajectory. No cloaking device is gonna hide that. Might as well strap fucking disco lights to the outside of the hull and cruise right into their hangar bay.” 

“What are the chances they’ll be scanning for fixed magnetic fluctuations?” Ellaz asked quietly, eyeing the growing shape of Yavin Prime as they drew closer to the gas giant. 

“Depends on if they’re expecting company or not,” she said with a shrug. “Coordinates?” 

Aric handed a datachip to the kid in the copilot seat, and he slid it into a slot on the console; a moment later and the glowing holo image of Yavin and its accompanying moons lit up the bridge, a small glowing light burning bright on the largest of one of the satellites. It was facing directly out towards the star destroyers, the rotation of the moon meaning that it was completely visually exposed for their approach.

“Shit,” Bobbi said under her breath. 

“We can go in hot and give them less time to catch us,” Ellaz said, “or I’m guessing we can try and go in quiet?” 

“I’m not so good at quiet,” Bobbi said, and the internal comms crackled instantly and Risha said “I’ll say.” 

Bobbi leaned forward and pressed the mute button. “I’m sorry, what’s that your Highness? You’re breaking up, I think someone was being hurtful on the line.” 

Aric made a noise somewhere deep in his chest, obviously some kind of cathar noise to express displeasure. “Go in normal, like there’s nothing amiss,” he said.

“We’re not exactly standard military in this barge,” Ellaz said. “They’ll barely need to look at us to know something’s up.”

Bobbi swivelled in her chair, banging Theron’s knee with the arm. “I’m _sorry,_ ” she said in an exaggerated tone, “but did you just call The Wife a barge?”

“She’s big and fat and wide, like people get when they settle and get comfy,” Risha said over the comms again, and Bobbi lunged for the button.

“I muted you!”

“Yeah, you _did_. You think I can’t slice my way around that?”

“I am _trying_ to run a professional operation-”

“Really? Where? I’d really like to see that someday.”

Ellaz had a hand up to her forehead, her eyes tight closed. “If we could maybe focus on the whole multiple Imperial star destroyers waiting for us only a couple of million clicks away...”

Theron rubbed at his chin, thinking furiously. “We’re a freighter, we could pass as a supply run?” he offered, even as Aric was shaking his head. 

“Standard op setup like this one would be on regular drops, probably monthly rotations, and the Imps’d know that. We might get lucky and just happen to fall within the timeframe for a drop, but chances are, probably not.”

“Not to mention, this is a civilian freighter,” Bobbi pointed out helpfully, “far more stylish than any kriffing military clunker.”

“And that doesn’t rule out the possibility that the Imps have this place back under their thumb, and that those star destroyers aren’t on shoot to kill orders,” Ellaz said.

Bobbi snorted. “Wouldn’t be the first time the old girl and I have had to outfly the Imps,” she said, rubbing her hands together gleefully. “So, what’s it gonna be- we running in hot, we sliding in all casual like we’re perfectly law-abiding citizens, or we gonna sneak?”

Aric and Ellaz shared one of those long looks that seemed to imply some sort of higher communication, and if he didn’t know for a fact that Ellaz was as Force blind as a duracrete wall, he might have suspected they had some kind of telepathic connection; it annoyed him not being included, regardless of what it was.

It was clearly marriage. Marriage imparted some secret means of communicating that the poor unwed saps of the galaxy were denied access to.

Finally Ellaz nodded and turned back to the viewport. “We’ll go in casual- don’t make a huge effort to hide, we don’t want them to think we’re a threat if they do catch us on their sensors, but don’t do any fancy flying.”

Bobbi saluted over her shoulder. 

The rotation of Yavin Prime meant that as of right now, the section of the moon they were aiming for was still dark, with dawn maybe an hour or two away. That would hopefully work in their favour, because the camp would likely be quiet and unprepared for a surprise visit; there was only so much the night watch would be able to do in between frantically rousing everyone from their beds. 

“Alright everyone,” Bobbi said, “hold onto your hats.”

They came gliding around the curve of the gas giant, and no one in the bridge said a word as the two star destroyers came into view; holding steady in orbit over the fourth moon was the unmistakeable shape of a space station.

“Readings from the station are a little wonky,” Bobbi muttered. “Like it’s non-operational, or something.”

“That’s not a regular star destroyer,” Aric said under his breath, gesturing to the closer of the two. “Look at that central shaft- that’s not a launching point for fighters, that’s a weapon trough.”

“Does he use that line in bed?”

Ellaz snorted, and Aric’s ears very abruptly went flat against his skull; Theron had to wonder if that was the cathar equivalent of blushing.

Theron took pity on him. “Silencers, you think?”

“Or close enough.”

“What’re Silencers?” Corso asked.

“Hopefully something I can invest in for around here,” Bobbi said under her breath.

“Rapid-firing megalasers capable of destroying an entire fleet,” Theron supplied. “They’re stupidly powerful, so they can only be fitted on capital ships. They were one of Nox’s pet projects.”

“So whose flagship is that, just hanging around casually where our Battlemaster was last known to be heading?” Ellaz asked ominously. “Does the Wrath have her own flagship?”

“Not last I heard,” Theron said. “But last you heard, there wasn’t a space station over Yavin, so maybe we’ve both got bad intel.”

They drew closer to the moon in question without being pinged, and the tension was so bad on the bridge that Theron thought he was going to vibrate right out of his damned skin. Ellaz was back to chewing on her fingernail, and Aric had a hand on the back of the copilot’s chair, as if for balance. His claws were out, which didn’t seem to be a good thing. 

The only one who didn’t seem to be on the verge of being overwhelmed by the pressure was Yuun, but damned if he could read the bug’s body language. Maybe he’d already gone into some kind of catatonic state of shock, for all he knew. 

“Easy there, baby,” Bobbi murmured softly, apparently more fond of her ship than her copilot, “you’re doing real good there.”

They were in full view of the star destroyers now, with nowhere to hide should anyone happen to be paying extraordinarily close attention out of the bridge viewports. Yavin 4 drew closer, the space station looming in front of them. It was thankfully mostly dark, with only minimal emergency lighting showing in the open hangar bays.

“If that thing were operational, we’d be so boned right now,” Bobbi said. “And not the fun way.”

They slid past the station and then the first little jolts as they hit the atmosphere began.

“This feels too easy,” Theron said quietly. 

Bobbi threw him a filthy look over her shoulder. “Don’t ever say that sort of shit,” she said irritably. “You know what happens when people say that sort of shit? Lady Luck pays attention, and she doesn’t like the fact that you called her easy, so she’s gonna fuck you over.”

“Shields are holding steady, captain,” Risha said over the comms. “From my end, it doesn’t look like we’ve been pinged.”

“Nothing on my screens either,” Corso said. 

Bobbi’s determined face was somewhere between maniacally gleeful and terrifyingly single-minded. “What’s that? That sounds like me _winning_.”

“We’re two clicks out from the camp now,” Corso said, “initial scans showing, uh... forty-three life signs, and two space faring craft.”

“There space for a third?”

“Yes, captain.”

She grinned. “How considerate of them.”

The jungle was a dark mass below them, with the occasional more geometric shape of the abandoned temples looming up to tower above the canopy. The jagged landscape was broken up by cliffs and mesas, as if the moon was trying to vie for supremacy with the man-made structures. One cliff in particular was faintly illuminated as they drew closer, and the floodlights helped him to make out familiar shapes in the scenery.

He hadn’t ever really thought he’d be glad to be back here. 

Bobbi brought the freighter in low over the camp, deliberately making a sweep over the top of it as an indication they were definitely guests and not pirates looking to find themselves a new hidey-hole. “Easy, baby,” she whispered, and then there was a loud clunk as the landing struts hit the stone in the clearing, obviously the floor of some ancient, long-forgotten ruin. 

“Risha, keep the shields running on an oscillator so we don’t burn through too much power,” she said, her voice low. 

“You got it, boss.”

Ellaz rolled her shoulders, a ruthless sort of grin of her own on her face. “I think that’s my cue,” she said, jerking her head towards the hallway; Aric fell in behind her as she made to leave the bridge, with Theron following him and Yuun bringing up the rear. 

“Good luck,” Bobbi called in a singsong voice from behind them.

They gathered in the airlock, checking over their weapons and gear one last time as Ellaz gave them their final debriefing. 

“Alright,” she said, as they waited for the ship to depressurize to match the atmosphere outside, “the camp here isn’t large, most of the forces were pulled back after the initial defeat of the False Revan, so we shouldn’t be looking at a significant hostile force. There’s two commanders, one Jedi and one Sith, and each side contributed about two squads apiece, with an additional complement of non-combatants like archaeologists and the like. All up, we shouldn’t be looking at more than fifty potential hostiles, tops.”

“Oh, only fifty,” Theron said, checking his blasters again, because it’d be just his luck if it hadn’t actually charged last night. He heard the door seals pop to signify it was safe to leave. “My heart swells with optimism.”

“Look, I don’t want to know about parts of you swelling around me, boyo, you’re young enough to be my son.” She holstered her pistol and slapped her hand over the door lock. 

The airlock slid open with a final hiss, their ears popping slightly, and the clammy, cool night air of Yavin 4 came slithering into the corridor as Ellaz marched out of the door like she was on her way to oversee a parade inspection.

There were two soldiers standing at the foot of the ramp, one in Republic colours and the other in Imperial colours, neither of them wearing a helmet, and both of them staring in complete and utter shock at the sudden appearance of a civilian freighter. 

Ellaz marched down the ramp without preamble, nodding tersely to both of them. “Sloppy,” she said dismissively. “No helmets, blasters on safety, your left boot has a broken clasp, and your blaster has grease marks around the shaft, so you’ve been skimping on cleaning.”

When neither of them answered her, simply continued to stare, she very pointedly crossed her arms over her chest, her head tilted ever so slightly to the side. Ellaz wasn’t tall by any definition of the term, and yet she still had the most unnerving talent of being able to make grown men a foot taller than her cringe and shrink away like twelve year olds caught with their hands in the sweets jar. This was no exception. 

The one in Republic colours seemed to recover first, although he’d gone remarkably pale. “I... uh, sir, we... I’m sorry, we weren’t expecting-”

“I don’t see how that’s supposed to be my problem,” Ellaz said flatly. “Your equipment and your gear are in appalling shape. Your presentation is embarrassing.”

“I- sorry, sir, you’re right, it’s-”

“We need to speak to the commanders,” she said, ignoring his stammering attempts to explain himself. “Urgently.” 

“They’re asleep, sir,” the Imperial blurted, her face almost chagrined at having to say it.

Ellaz stared at her until both of them began to squirm.

“Um, but I can go and wake them up?”

“Good idea,” she said bluntly. “Why don’t you show us to the command tent so we can make ourselves comfortable before they get here?”

The two soldiers exchanged dismayed looks- which didn’t seem particularly promising, all things considered- and then finally the Republic fellow said weakly “If you’ll just follow us, sirs.”

They led them through the camp, which all in all didn’t look all that remarkably different to when the Coalition had been here in force. Course, there’d been a hell of a lot more people running around back then, at all hours of the day and night, trying to combat the Revanites and the Imperial Guard who both seemed to have the uncanny ability to vanish in and out of the shadows of the thick jungle foliage without so much as a whisper. Sometimes he still had nightmares about it. 

The command centre was just as he remembered it, if a little more subdued now, and he felt a pang of melancholy as he slowly climbed the worn stone steps up to the main table.

“If you’ll just make yourselves comfortable, sirs, I’ll wake the camp commanders. They should be with you shortly.” 

Theron stood silently by the command table, where the holographic map of the topography used to take pride of place during the campaign against the Revanites. Now it had a handful of datapads scattered over the surface, and more than a few empty field mugs. “Never thought I’d find myself back here again,” he muttered to no one in particular, trying to ignore the echoes of a time when the camp had been far more lively than it was now. When his mother had stared down Darth Marr, when Darth Marr had still been _alive_ , for that matter... when the biggest issue on hand had being trying to stop Vitiate from reestablishing himself in physical form, not trying to guess how many damn bodies he had running around in the first place.

“What’s that, Shan?”

He shrugged off the sense of melancholy and doom that was nipping at his heels. “Nothing. Just talking to myself.”

Ellaz watched him shrewdly for a moment longer before looking back to the charts she’d been assessing on a nearby projection display. 

He remembered Yavin being hot and clammy, unpleasantly humid, so the damp chill in the air was a bit unusual. Granted, he couldn’t remember ever being up at this hour of the morning before, and they had been here at the other end of the year, when the seasons had been entirely different. And it was still clammy- that much, at least, hadn’t changed. 

He slapped at a sting on his neck, grimacing when he saw the smear of his own blood on his palm. The bugs hadn’t changed either, apparently. 

The sky was a muted sort of dark blue, the stars entirely absent at this hour, and the only light was coming from the various floodlights rigged up around the camp. The jungle loomed up around them from every side, the dark outlines of the trees towering over them as if they were sentient creatures waiting frozen for their attention to lapse, so that they could strike.

 _Or you could be less melodramatically paranoid, Shan,_ he thought irritably.

Ellaz and Aric had their heads bowed together, deep in private conversation, so they didn’t immediately notice they had company approaching them. Yuun, standing off to one side, made a faint buzzing noise that drew his attention; when Theron spotted movement, he cleared his throat loudly to get _their_ attention, nodding towards the disturbance when the pair glared at him. 

A strikingly handsome human male came striding towards them, the expression on his face showing them exactly how unhappy he was at having been dragged from the warmth of his bed in the damp cold before dawn. His warm brown skin was perhaps a shade or two darker than Theron’s own, and his shoulder-length hair was still vaguely tussled. Trailing along a step or two behind him was a rattataki woman, draped in something pale blue and wispy that implied she’d also come straight from bed, the light from the floodlights flashing off of the extensive piercings in her face. 

They both climbed the handful of steps leading up to the command table, coming to a stop before the three of them. “Major Hervoz,” the man said, his clipped Imperial accent marking him as very likely a Sith, “to what do we owe this _unmitigated_ pleasure?” 

If he’d spoken anymore sarcastically, the words would have been physically dripping from his mouth. 

Ellaz’s smile was tight, and rather terrifying. “It’s good to see you too, Thane,” she said, with the sort of edge to her tone that implied she was thinking anything but that. “You have my thanks for meeting with us so promptly.”

Theron made a conciliatory gesture towards the rattataki woman. “Although, honestly, there’s no rush, you could have stopped to get changed, we wouldn’t have minded....” 

She blinked owlishly. 

“You didn’t have to come out here in your nightgown,” he supplied.

The one Ellaz had called Thane sighed in aggravation. “That’s not a nightgown. She’s fully dressed by her standards.” 

For a beat or two, there was an awkward silence where Theron honestly wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d dissolved out of sheer embarrassment. “Anyway,” Ellaz said finally, sparing him the humiliation of waiting in vain for the ground to swallow him up for his inane comments, “I suppose introductions are in order. Thane, Araya- you remember my XO, Captain Jorgan.”

“A pleasure, as always,” the woman said, her voice oddly breathless.

“And this is Agent Theron Shan, who you may or may not remember from his contributions during the initial campaign.” The jungle around them was coming alive with the critters and creatures waking up for the day, getting louder and more agitated the closer they drew to the dawn. Ellaz was speaking slightly above normal just to be heard over the din. “Shan, this is Lord Maurevar Thane, aka Darth Venator because the damn Sith can’t just have one pretentious name, they have to have multiple-”

“I do so enjoy working with you, Major,” he said, his voice curt. 

“And this is Master Gataii Araya of the Jedi Order, she’s the Republic representative in the field and he’s here to represent the Empire’s interests.” 

“In what small way I can, of course,” Master Araya said, bowing her head respectfully. 

“And what, exactly,” Lord Thane said, all but spitting the words, “is the Republic’s interest in sending you here- without warning, I might add, at a disreputable hour, and in the middle of a new war where your attention is surely required elsewhere?”

Ellaz crossed her arms over her chest, projecting the sort of cold aggression that made Theron want to babble an apology, and it wasn’t even directed at him. “I don’t know that I care for your tone, Thane,” she said with deceptive pleasantness. 

“Would it help if I clicked my heels together and said ‘ _sir, yes sir_ ’ like a good little Republic lapdog?”

“What Lord Thane means to say is,” Master Araya said, seamlessly interrupting, “we are simply concerned that you felt the need to travel so far at such a crucial time. Were there issues, perhaps, with the quality of the reports we have been submitting to High Command? Something that warranted such a visit?”

Theron cleared his throat, trying to stop himself from talking with his hands when all eyes turned to him. “We’ve reason to believe the Jedi Battlemaster recently travelled here,” he said, but before he could continue, he was cut off by the sith’s laughter.

There was a touch of something cruel in the sound, but more than that, it was the sort of incredulous disbelief one makes when one is awaiting the announcement that something is a joke. “So you came all the way across the galaxy to see if she was here, rather than just sending a message?” he asked. “Bravo, sirs, what an astounding waste of Republic resources.”

“Is she here?” Theron asked, seeing no need to be subtle anymore- if subtlety had ever been on the cards to start with.

“She is not,” Master Araya provided gently, as if she was expecting the answer to disappoint him. 

“Fair enough,” Ellaz said, still in the role of steely eyed commanding officer with no patience for dissembling, “but I _would_ be interested in knowing why there’s an unmanned space station in orbit over the moon, of which I’ve had no word in any of your reports, and why there are two Imperial Star Destroyers holding steady about a half million clicks out?”

“And why one of them appears to be none other than the prototype for the Silencer weapon that’s been causing us so much grief these last few years,” Aric said, his voice little more than a growl. In fact, if Theron concentrated past the racket going on in the jungle behind them, he could actually hear a threatening rumble coming from Aric’s chest. Made his kriffing skin crawl, and he wasn’t even on the receiving end of it; stars, those two were terrifying when they put their mind to it. 

“We are in _Imperial_ space,” Thane said haughtily. “It is our _right_ to defend our territory.”

“Yavin 4 is the site of a mutually beneficial defense pact, to disrupt the influence of Vitiate-”

“Who _ate_ one of our _planets_ , while your _Republic_ sought to invade and take advantage of our weakness,” he snarled. “Do not speak to me of mutually beneficial _pacts_. You preyed upon us like filthy scavengers while a greater predator tore open our belly.”

“ _Maurevar_ ,” Master Araya said, with the sort of weary patience that implied she was well used to this. 

“ _What_ , Gat? This is insulting at best and at worst an invasion of Imperial sovereign space-”

She took him rather firmly by the arm and dragged him a dozen steps away, the two of them whispering heatedly to one another and glancing back in their direction more than once. Theron looked sideways at Aric, whose ears were twitching back and forth. “Anything?” he murmured.

Aric’s scowl didn’t change. “Too much background noise,” he muttered. 

Theron grunted in response. “Shame.” 

Ellaz sighed loudly. “You’re not doing much to set my mind at ease,” she called, weathering the scowls both Force users threw in her direction. “Fact, I’d actually call this downright unsettling.” 

“Do you know when you’re being a smartass you get more of a drawl in your voice?” Theron asked. 

“I’m Corellian. What do you want from me?” 

“I dunno. Eloquence?”

Master Araya and Lord Thane seemed to come to some kind of agreement, and they came back up the steps to join them. “Our apologies, sirs,” Araya said gently. “Lord Thane is not at his most diplomatic when he’s without his morning caf.”

The man in question just stared moodily at them all. 

“In regards to your concerns,” she continued, “we apologise for not informing you of the presence of the space station. This is an Imperial territory, and their civic construction efforts did not strike us as suspicious or unusual activity. We are here to monitor any lingering traces of Revanite or Imperial Guard activity, after all, not to act as spies.”

The chastisement was gentle, but pointed. 

Ellaz _pointedly_ ignored it. 

“You are here to serve the best interests of the Republic,” she said, “and a massive surge in Imperial activity in a sector known to have harboured the Sith Emperor in times past is definitely _not_ in the best interests of the Republic.” 

Gataii seemed to look mournful for a moment, and then she sighed. “I’m sorry it came to this, Major,” she said. “Truly.”

“Is that a threat, Master Jedi?”

“I don’t want it to be,” Gataii said. 

Theron felt the intensely strong presence of someone else in his mind, and from the angry shout from Ellaz and the snarled growl from Aric, he’d guess they felt it too. Jedi training had it’s perks, and he slammed his guard up, cursing himself for having kept it down in the first place. “What the hell-”

“Maurevar, if you’d be so good,” Gataii said pleasantly, as if she was just asking him to pass her a plate of sweets. Beside him, Aric and Ellaz were literally frozen in place, sweat beading on Ellaz’s brow as she very visibly struggled against the invisible bonds the Jedi had placed on them. 

The sith activated his lightsaber, which he’d apparently been concealing in his sleeve; the red blade snarled in the quiet of the dawn. “With pleasure,” he purred, stalking straight towards Theron.

“Woah, woah, what the-” Theron stumbled backwards, but not fast enough. With a blur of black leather and flashing red light, there was suddenly a lightsaber blade humming dangerously close to his throat, and Lord Thane had a death grip on his wrist, holding him in place. 

“Isn’t this nice?” He leaned in close, apparently unconcerned about the plasma weapon hovering only a whisker width away from Theron’s skin. “I do enjoy getting the opportunity to work _closely_ with you Republic types.”

“Be nice, Maurevar,” Gataii said warningly from over his shoulder. 

Maurevar’s grin was... well, frankly, he was gorgeous, but that didn’t change the fact that right now he had a weapon at his throat and that sort of diminished his appeal significantly. “I’m always nice,” he purred softly. 

After a moment, he noticed that Yuun was not frozen like Ellaz and Aric were, and he felt a surge of panicked hope. Clearly the Findsman’s own peculiar Force abilities were able to block out Gataii’s influence, just like Theron’s training allowed him to...

... but that hope flickered and died in his chest when he saw the Gand nod politely to the Jedi, discreetly stepping out of the way when camp soldiers appeared and rushed to put stun cuffs on the other Havoc squad members before they fought off Gataii’s hold. 

“Yuun!” Ellaz barked, her fury rolling off of her in waves.

“This Gand apologises, Major, but he cannot deny the clarity of the path. This way is right. Please, forgive this Gand.”

A soldier came up from behind him and Maurevar let go of his wrist at last to allow him to be cuffed; he considered struggling, but he rather liked his head being attached to his neck right now. Out of the gloom from the edge of the clearing, several soldiers emerged dressed in camo gear, their blasters held at the ready. From the direction of the landing pad, he heard disgruntled shouting, and then a moment later the unmistakable roar of a wookiee. 

They were herded over to the table and very firmly pushed down into the chairs settled around the edge, Lord Thane finally deactivating his lightsaber with a sizzling hiss while Gataii stood serenely beneath the gray of the dawn without a care in the world. In fact, she looked like she was daydreaming. 

Thinking furiously, Theron tried to work through what he knew about the encampment and what they’d been able to deduce before he’d left Coruscant. Lord Thane was a pariah of sorts, once firmly ensconced in Malgus’ faction before the coup attempt, and now still paying the price for his old Master’s folly years later. Master Araya, likewise, was somewhat on the outs with the Jedi Order, her first Master being the erstwhile Nomen Karr, another disgrace to his respective peers. 

And the Wrath had contributed to the effort to disrupt Malgus, and Nomen Karr had been the master of her own apprentice, the fallen padawan Jaesa Willsaam...

“You all work for the Wrath, don’t you?” Theron said perceptively, trying to keep his movements to pick the lock on his stun cuffs as minimal as possible. “That’s what this is about.”

Gataii did not seem at all surprised at his insight. “Indeed we do,” she said. “And again, I apologise that it came to this. Your hostility upon arrival made it necessary.”

“Maybe I have a tendency to get hostile when people _fucking betray me_ ,” Ellaz spat, her chair screeching a little as it scuffed over the stones when she tried to jerk forward. “Or the spirit of this coalition. Or the Republic! Take your fucking pick!”

“It’s nothing like that, Major,” Gataii said, looking distressed. “Please, if you will just give it some time, we have called for someone to speak to you-”

“Fucking fantastic! Don’t want to get your hands dirty murdering us yourself? Dump it off on the nearest sith and call it a win!”

“ _I’m_ the nearest sith,” Maurevar said pointedly, in what was clearly supposed to be a joke. Nobody laughed.

More soldiers appeared, marching Bobbi and her crew into the clearing, all of whom were cuffed and looking intensely sullen. Bobbi brightened noticeably upon seeing them, her gaze locking keenly on the Jedi and the Sith. 

“Hey, hello!” she called, trying to wave to get their attention- a feat somewhat hindered by the cuffs around her wrists. “I have a medic’s note that says I’m allergic to dying, so can I be excused from this little jaunt?”

“Put them with the others, please,” Gataii said, gesturing towards the command table. 

“I have money,” Bobbi said, apparently undeterred. “I won’t say lots, but I am at least willing to pay for my release, and maybe one other person.”

“Bobbi!” Risha snapped.

“What? I need a bargaining position! I can’t start begging from the get go.”

The soldiers frogmarched her over to the table, sitting her down rather forcibly in the seat next to Theron. She beamed at him, a smile that seemed to promise immensely large amounts of violence should she happen to get free. “Well,” she said, “you done fucked this one up, son.”

Theron sighed, tipping his head back to stare at the blank sky. “I need to start hanging out with people my age,” he muttered. “You old birds just keep getting me into trouble.”

____

They didn’t have to wait long for Master Araya’s vague promise of company. The distant horizon was already growing bright as a short range shuttle came circling in low over the cliff top, settling down in a grove just nearby and ever so slightly out of easy line of sight. He could hear voices after a moment, shouted greetings, and then there was a lone soldier walking towards them, escorted by one of the guards who had first greeted them. 

He was big. There wasn’t really any other way to describe him. He was a solid wall of a man, and he looked like he’d hit you like a tank at ramming speed if he came at you. Unlike the rest of the soldiers in the camp, his kit didn’t bear any identifying markers apart from a single golden line painted over the otherwise plain black breastplate. 

Looking at the motley collection of prisoners arrayed in front of him, he drew slowly to a halt, hands on his hips. He had the most smug, shit-eating grin on his face that Theron had ever seen, as if the whole thing was an immensely hilarious joke and he was about to burst out laughing. 

“Well, well,” he said slowly, his rough drawl giving him away immediately as an Imperial, at the very least, “now what have we got here.”

Master Araya stepped forward. “I apologise for waking you, Lieutenant,” she began, but he brushed her off.

“No worries, the kids were up anyway,” he said, and Theron didn’t know what to focus on first- the fact that Gataii had deferred to a simple lieutenant, or the fact that he’d just calmly mentioned children as if that were important in a situation like this. “What’s a sleep-in, amirite? Bless the little blighters.”

Theron blinked in confusion. 

Assessing the lineup of display, the lieutenant paced slowly back and forth before settling finally on Ellaz, and his grin grew wider. The large soldier came to a stop in front of her, eyeing her from head to toe. He towered over her by about a foot, but she still managed to hold herself as if she was looking down her nose at him; Theron envied her for that talent. 

The Imp grunted. “You’re Hervoz,” he said without preamble. “Havoc Squad.”

It wasn’t a question; Ellaz narrowed her eyes at him. “That’s right,” she said slowly, suspiciously.

He suddenly grinned at her, the look not entirely friendly. It was... he wanted to say competitive? “You took back the Bastion,” he said, crossing his arms over his massive chest. 

Understanding dawned in her eyes. “You’re Pierce,” she said, “Black Ops?”

“I was proud of that little job, you know,” he said. “You undid a lot of hard work me n’ my boys and girls did.”

This seemed to be familiar ground for her, at least, because he could see her visibly relaxing. “Gee I’m so sorry I had to take back an illegally seized Republic facility during my very successful campaign to liberate Corellia,” she drawled. “Maybe next time don’t come shit in my front yard like that I won’t try to shoot you in the ass while you’ve got your pants down.” 

Most of the crowd tensed at the insult, but Pierce threw back his head and laughed heartily. “Most Pubs I’ve met don’t have a sense of humour,” he said, grinning ruthlessly. “Corellian?”

“Yeah.”

“Ziost,” he said, then shrugged. “Seeing your home done over gives you a different perspective, heh.” 

“What, you suddenly understand what the fuck you assholes have been doing to any number of Republic worlds for decades now?” 

“Ouch, Major, here I am trying to find common ground with you-”

“Maybe don’t take me fucking prisoner and coerce my people into committing treason, then I’ll be more inclined to fucking talk.”

He grunted. “Fair call,” he said. “She did think you were coming, but we thought we had a few more days to get things organised.”

“She?”

“The missus,” he said, with a wide grin. “I’m here to inform you that you are the esteemed guests of her ladyship, the Lord Wrath, because we’re mighty in need of filling up the seats on her war council, see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Worth mentioning of course that the very lovely Bobbi Voresh is the character of the equally delightful magesmagesmages (because my smuggler is an unmitigated asshole and nobody wants to spend time with them) and Maurevar Thane is the character of the lovely sithrightsactivist. Thank you both for letting me borrow your kids!


	31. Chapter 31

Waking up with another person beside her was always an interesting experience- just because she eschewed from more intimate relationships didn’t mean she hadn’t shared a bed before, although admittedly her encounters were limited to Kira or crowded flocks of Jedi younglings. Sometimes when the nightmares had been at their worst, when the past seemed so close that ghosts of the more painful memories pressed against their skin, they’d lain together in bed, every light on so the shadows couldn’t touch them, talking until one or both of them fell asleep mid sentence. The younglings had been about the same- precious children struggling with the burden of knowing far too young the horrors of war, and knowing far too young that they would have to face it with a blade in their hands before they were ready. 

She used to wake up in the dormitories to find two or three or more of them tucked in around her, having crawled beneath the sheets while she slept to cling to the dubious safety she offered them. 

Waking up beside Thexan... it was actually more similar than she would have thought. The instinctive need to take comfort in the warmth and presence of another living being, to reach out in a moment of grief and fear and know you weren’t alone in your pain- it was an extraordinarily powerful thing. She vaguely remembered moving to the bed from the couch, and she remembered Thexan rambling at her (although she couldn’t for the life of her think of anything he’d said, only that his voice had been calming) and she remembered in her sleep addled distress asking him to stay with her; the fact that he’d done so was startling, and it made her belly flutter as she blinked slowly awake. 

There was light filtering in from the upper tiers of the structure, and in the light of day it looked like there might have been balconies that opened onto the outside. The light was soft and dim, and the sounds of the night had retreated now that the day had begun. 

Thexan was still fast asleep, sprawled on his back with his mouth slightly open; the softest snoring noise came from between his lips, and his eyelashes were long and graceful where they rested against his cheeks. She’d heard that humans- particularly the males- could be a bit funny about eyelashes, and it seemed so peculiar to her. In sleep, with the dark lashes fluttering ever so gently against his skin as if he was dreaming, he looked beautiful. 

She’d woken up to find herself nestled into his side, her head on his shoulder and an arm and a leg slung casually over him; the intimacy of the embrace made her lekku curl up against her back in something that was part embarrassment and part excitement. She removed her leg as carefully as she could, trying to ignore how his thigh had felt beneath her, but her hand was brushing against the scar tissue over his stomach, and curiosity got the better of her. 

Easing her head up off of his shoulder and propping herself up on her elbow, she got distracted for a moment staring down at him. He looked so much healthier than he had all those months ago, on their first day together on the _Illustrious_ \- the pallid hue was gone from his skin, replaced with a pink that seemed to glow with health, and he was nowhere near as gaunt. She couldn’t say whether he was recovered to his full strength from prior to his injury, but it seemed likely that he was well on his way to it. 

There was a vague shadow over his chin and cheeks, that stubble again- she hadn’t realised how often humans had to tend to their grooming, and it seemed entirely too finicky for her tastes. As long as she used a good quality oil once or twice a week, her lekku would stay soft and avoid taking on a more leathery texture; she couldn’t imagine how tedious it must be to have to attend to such a task every single day. 

But he looked good. It made her heart soar, to see the improvement in him, and more than that, to see the improvement in his spirit. He bore vicious, ugly scars within him, where his father had shaped him into a monster, and she knew from personal experience that no amount of patience and kindness would stop them from aching some days. Despite that, he was still trying, she could feel it with each tentative step he took- he had protected her from the skytroopers, and he’d stood up to Scourge for her. He’d comforted Master Xo’s droid, and he’d comforted her in the night not once, but twice now. 

He was sullen and moody and bratty, she wasn’t going to deny that, but he was also hesitantly kind and immovably loyal once you had his trust. 

Vitiate had wanted him to be his weapon and his puppet, and every step he took away from that was bound to be painful and an anathema to that upbringing. 

She was so proud of him. 

Shaking her head to clear the fuzzier, more sappy thoughts that were crowding around in there, she turned her attention to the scar on his stomach. She’d had plans, initially, plans to see that he was given far better care than he’d received so far under her protection... although thinking of how skittish and aggressive he’d been in the first few weeks, perhaps it was better that she hadn’t tried to have him prodded and poked by medics and psychologists and body sculptors looking to fix him.

Thinking of how his father had consistently found him wanting, and in need of improvement, she knew without a shadow of a doubt that it was a good idea she hadn’t tried to help him so enthusiastically to begin with. Maybe in time, as he came to accept himself... 

She ran her fingers carefully over the ridges of the scar, taking note of the how it had settled since she’d last examined it; there was a hint of inflammation, probably just aggravated tissue from repeated stress, but it warranted care. Concentrating, she drew on the finer tendrils of the Force around them, smoothing her palm over the injury and encouraging it to heal. She felt some of the tension ease, some of the inflammation settle, and the lingering psychic traces of aching pain relented slightly. 

Thexan shifted in his sleep, and then very abruptly groaned; she felt his muscles go tight under her palm, and then he was half-turning onto his side towards her. She squeaked in surprise and tried to shuffle backwards, but it quickly became apparent that she wasn’t the object of his attentions when he reached instead for his shoulder with his other hand, the groan trailing off sleepily as he seemed to come fully awake. 

His eyes were still closed, but his jaw was tense- as if he was clenching his teeth- and after a moment’s hesitation she said quietly “Thexan?”

He breathed out loudly and cracked open an eye. “My arm went to sleep,” he rasped, his voice husky. 

She let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding, the sound coming out like a soft laugh. “You worried me for a moment there,” she said. 

Blinking blearily, he snorted in amusement. “It’s your doing,” he said, rubbing at his shoulder as if trying to encourage the blood to flow back into the neglected limb. “You fell asleep on it.”

Ona’la bit her lip, her cheeks heating. “I didn’t hear you complaining at the time.” 

“I suppose I didn’t,” he said, fighting off a yawn. “I don’t think you would have heard me over your snoring.”

It took her a moment to realise that he was teasing her, and apparently that moment of stunned horror on her face was of great amusement to him, if the way he burst out laughing was anything to go by. “I do _not_ snore,” she said, her lekku curling around itself behind her as she fought off a smile. “It’s your word against mine, and I’m the darling of the Republic, of course everyone is going to believe me.”

“Using your political sway to hide unflattering truths? For _shame_ , Battlemaster.” 

The laughter trailed off into something soft and lazy and contented, and then they were just grinning sleepily at each other in the dimly golden light of the morning. She still had her hand on his stomach, and she was propped up on her other elbow, looking down on him where he was still reclining against the pillows. He was warm to the touch, and she could feel his belly move with each breath he took, and his leg was pressed up against hers, and-

-and she knew very abruptly and without a shred of doubt that she wanted to kiss him. 

The shock of that realization made her jerk backwards in alarm- she’d _never_ wanted to kiss _anyone_ before, not even vague curiosity as to the act- and she scrambled off the edge of the bed, stumbling to her feet. Once the initial surge of bewilderment passed she was left only with dismay, because how could she even _consider_ pressing any sort of romantic suit against someone so recently exposed to such trauma and emotional upheaval, someone who depended on her for protection and security, how could she-

“Ona’la?” Thexan had sat up just as abruptly as she’d recoiled, a confused frown on his face as he stared at her. He had one hand up, as if he’d gone to reach for her and then hesitated. “Are you...?”

 _Out of your mind_ , a cruel voice at the back of her head supplied. 

She had to get herself under control. “I’ll just shower,” she said quickly, then realised her mistake. “I mean, not that there’s a shower, I’ll just- I’ll go. Get ready, I mean. I’ll go and get ready.”

She fled into the dubious sanctuary offered by the refresher, trying to tell herself she’d simply imagined the crestfallen, slightly frustrated look of confusion on Thexan’s face as she’d run from him. _You didn’t run, you gave him space instead of manhandling him- you can’t throw yourself at him just because he was kind to you._

The water in the pool was still cold, and not knowing whether there was any device or switch to warm it, she welcomed the opportunity to dunk herself rather forcibly into a tub of cold water. Perhaps it would kickstart her brain into working, so she could stop thinking with more primal, less intelligent parts of her body; she scrubbed furiously at herself, anything to make the gentler, softer sensations flee, and by the time she was clean and applying her makeup, she felt in control of herself again. 

_There is no emotion, there is only peace_ , she recited quietly to herself, packing away all of her jars and capsules so that Thexan wouldn’t be forced to navigate through a cluttered bathing area when they swapped places. When he came in here and stripped away the last of his clothing, and when the water would run down his chest and trace the line of his muscles-

“There is no emotion,” she said aloud, and more forcibly this time, to distract herself from her wayward thoughts. “There is only peace.”

“Did you say something?” Thexan called from the other room.

She bit her tongue, wincing before answering. “Just musing on the teachings of Odan-Urr,” she called back, chastising herself silently for the lie. “I find it helps to clear my head in the mornings to devote some time to reflection.”

The refresher door opened at the wave of her hand, and she came back out into the room to find Thexan kneeling in a meditative pose on rug before the large, curved couch; he was still shirtless, and her gaze was immediately drawn to the shape of his arms and his shoulders, the curve of muscles beneath the skin and goddess help her this was getting ridiculous.

He rose gracefully to his feet at her reappearance, and the controlled agility took her breath away; he moved with so much grace when he wasn’t stomping around sulking, or hunched over trying to deflect attention. It reminded her of how he’d moved when they’d fought on Eriadu, the dancer’s fluidity in his attacks- she, by comparison, knew she moved like an avalanche, a wall of unstoppable might, with no more grace than a panicked rycrit. 

She very abruptly felt self conscious. 

“Tahrin sent someone over while you were bathing,” he said, unaware of her train of thought. “There’s a tray there, for breakfast, and she’s asked us to return to the main hall as soon as possible. There’s to be a meeting of some sort.”

That caught her attention, dragging it away from her moment of self pity. “Did they give any other details?”

He shrugged. “Just that they awaited our presence,” he said, moving as if to go past her to the refresher. 

“Are you feeling up to meeting with other people?” she asked quickly, before he could vanish inside.

Thexan paused at the doorway, but didn’t turn back towards her. “If I said I wasn’t, would it matter at all?”

“Of course,” she said instantly. “Of course it would.”

He didn’t say anything, but after a moment he stepped through the portal, letting the door hiss closed behind him. 

Ona’la busied herself with the last of her morning ablutions while she waited for him, fetching her accessories from where she’d dumped them on the couch the night before, picking nervously at the breakfast and trying to tell herself it would be alright. So what if she’d had a moment of weakness and wanted to kiss him? She hadn’t forced herself on him, and she’d immediately given him space, and that was the important thing to remember; she would just have to refocus her studies in the weeks to come on texts devoted to self discipline, and all would be well. 

She would not take advantage of someone she was supposed to be protecting- oh, _stars_ , didn’t that sound ridiculous. She, who had never even kissed another individual of any gender or species, suddenly having to worry that she was being too aggressive with someone. 

When Thexan emerged from the refresher sometime later, his skin still pink from scrubbing, she felt she had herself settled for the day. Hopefully. She gestured to the remaining food, but he shook his head as he sat to pull on his boots. “I ate a little while you were bathing,” he said, and there didn’t seem to be anything more to discuss about it than that. 

At the doorway, she put a hand up to stop him before they stepped outside. “Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked quietly.

He sighed. “It’s because of what I said before, isn’t it?” he said. “It’s fine, really. I’d rather just see what this is she wants us to attend and get it over and done with.”

She wasn’t likely to get a better answer than that, so after a moment of searching his face, she nodded reluctantly and let him pass, following him out into the humid morning air. It wasn’t overly hot, which was nice, but she imagined it was likely to get worse as the day carried on. 

“There were some other arrivals yesterday,” she said, feeling the mist from the waterfall dampen her skin as they crossed the vast stone bridge. “I imagine she was referring to them.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Thexan nod. “I saw the landing craft come in several times yesterday,” he said. “I mean, I didn’t know whether they were transfers from the space station or other people like us, who travelled here...”

She bit her lip, debating whether or not to tell him. “The team that freed us is here,” she said quietly, watching him carefully for any reaction. “It was an unsanctioned mission from Imperial Intelligence, I don’t know if I ever got around to telling you that.”

“Oh.” He was silent for a moment as they walked, the shadow of the trees flickering over the two of them. “I didn’t know they were Imperial.”

“I probably should have told you that earlier, I’m sorry.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” he said, and then was silent again for a moment. “I’m just surprised, I suppose. I think I always assumed it was a Republic team that came for you.”

She laughed gently. “It’s the logical assumption to make,” she said, putting her hand on the railing for balance as they began to take the winding stairs down into the main hall. “If I hadn’t woken up for a portion of the rescue, I wouldn’t have known myself.”

He made a noise as if he was thinking. “I’m curious, actually, about how they knew how to find us,” he said. “Zakuul, I mean. Not only that, but how they knew where to find you on Zakuul. And break you out.”

“I’m not entirely sure of the details myself, but I am under the impression that the location of Zakuul at least was provided by the Chiss Ascendancy.” 

His frown eased, and he made a sound of revelation. “Of course. I don’t know why that didn’t occur to me.”

She glanced at him. “That doesn’t surprise you?”

“The Ascendancy are perhaps one of the few governments who were aware of us even before we began our more aggressive expansion efforts,” he said. “I get the impression that we might have traded with them in the distant past, but I’m not sure if it was before my father’s time or after he arrived and uplifted our people.”

The idea of Vitiate uplifting anyone left a sour taste in her mouth, but she didn’t say that aloud; it was one thing for her to criticize Vitiate, but it was another thing entirely for her to criticize Thexan’s people, who had been just as manipulated and misled as he himself had been. 

She could hear voices down below, far more than she was expecting given their numbers from yesterday, so she deduced that perhaps another craft or two had arrived during the night. The thought alone was intriguing, because Tahrin’s cryptic allusions to a war council were beginning to make more sense given the people she had gathered to her. The unpleasant comparison to Malgus was still lingering in her thoughts, a prickling warning in her stomach, but for the time being it was tolerable; she honestly didn’t think that Lord Dara would be so open with her intentions, if she were attempting something like Malgus had. 

Although, given all the reports she had heard about Malgus’ uncharacteristically charitable outreach to Republic forces on Ilum shortly before his coup, she might be forced to eat those words soon.

As she entered the wide, grand hall, she felt her heart skip a beat at the sound of familiar voices, and she knew she let out a sound of delight when she spotted not just Major Hervoz looking tired and worryingly frustrated, but also Theron. She was rushing across the hall before she could stop herself, and Theron- thankfully hearing her about to ambush him- turned and caught her when she all but threw herself into his arms. 

“Theron!” She knew she was laughing, and she felt like she should have been embarrassed for her reaction to his appearance, but she didn’t care. She hadn’t realised what a difference it would make having an old, dear friend with her, given how absurdly tense the last few days had been. “What are you even doing here?”

He was laughing too, and he set her back on her feet with a grunt of effort- she was far stockier than he was, true. She forgot that sometimes. “Easy on there, Nala,” he said with a grin. “You’ll crush a man if you’re not careful.”

She punched him gently on the arm, taking in the room as she did so. The seats had all been turned inwards towards the centre console, and some had clearly been dragged in from other rooms and halls. The room was crowded, far more crowded than she had expected, and there were any number of faces she didn’t recognise in the gathering; Tahrin’s reach was both startlingly encouraging and ominously extensive. 

“What are you doing here?” she repeated, seeing Xolani already seated near to the console and offering her a small wave of good morning. Xolani returned the gesture, but there was something in her eyes that did not bode well. 

Thexan went slowly past them, staring flatly at Theron as he took a seat one down from Xolani, presumably to leave space for her between them.

“Oh, you know,” Theron said, running a hand over his head in what she knew immediately was a nervous gesture. “Apparently there’s some fancy gathering going on, couldn’t miss that.”

“I didn’t know you’d been invited too,” she said. “We could have travelled together.”

There was a beat of silence, and she saw his expression falter ever so slightly. “Yeah, so, about that...”

“What?” she asked with a laugh. “Were you not invited? Did you just sneak in with Major Hervoz and hope no one would notice?”

“I would have thought it was obvious,” Lord Dara said in that emotionless tone of hers, from where she stood waiting by the console. “He followed you with the tracking device you’re wearing.”

Ona’la blinked, and then laughed again. “Oh, I see where the confusion is coming from,” she said. “I _have_ an object that can be used as a tracking device, but it’s not the one on my headband. It’s not a tracking device, it’s a signal disruptor-”

“Did you think I would allow you into my home without knowing precisely what technology you carried with you?” Tahrin asked frankly. “The object you are referring to is indeed a signal disruptor- but it is _also_ a tracking device.”

“That’s...” She tried to laugh, but the sound died on her lips when she looked over at Theron, and saw the immense guilt on his face. A stone settled in her stomach. “Theron, it’s not true, is it?” 

His wince looked like it was trying to be a smile, but he couldn’t manage it, and he sort of half shrugged with his hands stuffed in his pockets. “I may have... _maybe_... skimmed on the details a little,” he said weakly. 

She felt as if she’d been slugged in the gut. “You _planted_ a tracking device on me?”

He gave up any attempt at smiling, and tried a new tact. “I didn’t think I’d have to use it a week later, _kriff_ -”

“How is this _my_ fault?” she snapped, tears burning at her eyes; goddess, everyone could see her falling apart, an entire room full of some of the most powerful individuals in the galaxy, and she was blubbering because her friend had treated her like a wayward child. “You lied to me, Theron!” 

“That’s not it at all-”

“Then what _is_ it, Theron? Because all it looks like to me is that you don’t trust me-”

“Of _course_ I trust you!” He half shouted the words, as if he was teetering between frustration and embarrassment. “But you run off to the far ends of Imperial space on a- on a _whim_ , to meet with Vitiate’s private assassin, of _all_ people-”

“I didn’t know I had to clear my schedule with you before I left my apartment in the mornings!” she shouted, the first tears slipping onto her cheeks. Stars, but it hurt, it hurt so much to think he didn’t trust her.

He looked utterly crestfallen. “Nala, don’t be like that,” he said, almost pleadingly.

“Don’t call me that,” she snapped, wiping furiously at her eyes and hoping that she hadn’t smeared her makeup too horrendously. She turned her back on him and went back to her seat, beside Thexan. He didn’t say anything, but his expression was as black as a thundercloud as he stared daggers at Theron, and after a moment she felt the gentle warmth of his hand closing over hers. She sniffed, trying to compose herself, and relaxed a little. 

“If we are done with the theatrics,” Tahrin said tersely, “then perhaps we can continue.”

Theron remained on his feet for a moment longer, staring at her miserably, but when she pointedly refused to look in his direction he gave up, throwing his hands up as if in frustration before slumping sullenly into a seat near to an older blonde woman. 

“Thank you,” she said. Her posture hadn’t changed at all, just as standoffish and closed off as always, her hands clasped behind her back as if she was assessing a parade ground. “I’m sure you’ve all deduced to some extent why you are here, so I’ll not waste time on pleasantries. Zakuul means to destroy the Republic and Empire both, and I mean to stop them.”

Every eye in the room turned to where she sat with Thexan- or, more specifically, to Thexan himself. He scowled. “What?” 

“Prince Thexan’s presence on this council is not a security threat,” Tahrin said dryly, as if she was amused by the reaction, but he interrupted her. 

“Just Thexan,” he said, “no title.”

Lord Dara looked at him carefully for a few tense moments before nodding. “Just Thexan, then,” she said, before turning back to the rest of the gathering. “For those uninformed on current events, I shall summarise- Zakuul was, until recently, governed by one of Vitiate’s other forms, under the name of Valkorion. That form was destroyed- an event I believe most of us present with some attunement to the Force felt- and as per his previous encounters with death, I have reason to believe that his spirit retreated, to regain enough strength to either craft himself another physical body, or enforce his will upon another.”

“I thought we were here about Zakuul,” drawled a large brown woman on the far side of the room, leaning back on her elbows and lounging as if she didn’t have a care in the world. 

“Ysaine, I will tolerate your cavalier interruptions for Gabriel’s sake, but do not push me.” She hadn’t even blinked, her tone no different, but Ona’la felt a shiver go up her spine regardless. “Zakuul is the focus of our discussions for now, because if you’ll all recall, Vitiate’s deliberate manipulations of the Revanite cult and the conflict that escalated on this very moon were all used to fuel his reincarnation. That conflict pales in comparison to the carnage Zakuul is capable of inflicting on the greater galaxy.”

“He still had to attack Ziost afterwards,” Major Hervoz said, her brow furrowed as she considered Lord Dara’s words. “The war wasn’t enough for him to do it proper.”

Tahrin nodded in acknowledgement. “Ziost was, I believe, more of a way for Vitiate to spur the Dark Council into action and lure them into his trap,” she said. “The death of Ziost’s population bears some similarities to the ancient ritual Vitiate used to obtain immortality in the first place, but not entirely. Wouldn’t you agree, Battlemaster?”

Ona’la blinked, not expecting the conversation to turn to her so abruptly. “Beg pardon?”

“You were present for the death of Ziost,” she said, “and spent several months investigating Vitiate’s first ritual, and his attempts to replicate it. Out of everyone present, I would say you have the greatest understanding of the process.”

She hesitated, but she felt the faint brush of Thexan’s thumb over the back of hand, as if encouraging her, and she took a deep breath. “I suppose I do,” she said slowly. “The original ritual, or at least what we’ve been able to determine about it, was far more structured, presumably because it needed to be so finely tuned to push him past the bonds of death in the first place. The later two attempts, Yavin and Ziost- and to some extent, Corellia, I think- were not as organised because he was already past the most difficult part, becoming immortal. He was just looking to, well... recharge, I suppose.”

“Maybe it got easier over time,” Lana said. “Maybe he didn’t need the assistance of others to replicate the process, once he knew how it worked in practice.”

A chiss woman on the far side of the room cleared her throat. “I suppose it’s irrelevant at this exact point in time, but I’d be interested in examining biological samples from the two successful sites,” she said. “If we know the location of the first planet, of course.”

Tahrin nodded in confirmation. “Malavai?” she said, turning to the man seated at her right hand. 

“I’ll arrange to have the samples delivered as soon as possible, my lord.”

“What are you hoping to find?” Ona’la asked curiously.

It was hard to say, given her stark red eyes and vivid blue colouring, but it almost seemed like the woman was uncomfortable with the attention. “The chiss have long made a study of the physical aspects of the Force, to attempt to demystify it, and we have several techniques not known to the wider galaxy for examining the presence of Force influence on a cellular and atomic level.” She hesitated, as if unsure whether to continue or not. “I can’t say for sure, but it might be worthwhile examining soil or bone or plant matter, or tissue if it’s still available, to see if we can gain a better understanding of exactly how Vitiate draws energy from the planet.” 

“Which in turn means we might be able to find a way to counter it,” Xolani murmured on Ona’la’s other side, nodding approvingly. 

The chiss woman shrugged, still looking uncomfortable. The human man seated beside her, with his unpleasantly pitch black eyes, smiled encouragingly at her. “The Force, regardless of what spiritual beliefs people may hold about it, still has a physical presence in the galaxy, which implies that there are physical laws governing how it functions. It’s just a matter of learning those laws in the first place.” 

“So, what, we’re gonna make ourselves a Force repellant spray or something?” the woman Tahrin had called Ysaine drawled, and the two much younger humans seated with her sighed in resignation, as if used to her disruptions. 

The blonde woman next to Theron put her hand up, and the redhead beside her promptly reached up and pulled her hand down again. “Can I buy, like, a crate of that?” she asked, not to be dissuaded. 

“We are not making a Force repellant spray,” Tahrin said, and it was only because Ona’la liked to think she was growing accustomed to her mannerisms that she felt certain that Tahrin was growing frustrated. “Watcher One, my facilities are at your disposal for your research, or if you would prefer-”

“I would prefer to continue my work on Dromund Kaas,” she said, and Ona’la looked at her with newfound interest. She’d met the previous Watcher One many years ago, as a newly minted Knight stumbling around in the galaxy without supervision, and the weariness and the resignation in him had taken her by surprise. She knew now as an older, more experienced soldier that she should have taken him into custody, so that they could try and uncover some of the Empire’s secrets, but at the time his fear of her had been too distressing for her to think properly, and she’d let him go. “I have my own laboratory, and copies of pertinent chiss scientific journals not readily available outside of the Ascendancy.”

“We shall see to it that the samples are delivered to you on Dromund Kaas as soon as possible,” Tahrin said, and behind her Malavai was furiously taking notes. “Moving back to the original topic at hand, which is the more immediate threat posed by Zakuul, and the potential energy any conflict will provide for Vitiate.” 

“Republic can’t stop Zakuul,” Major Hervoz said grimly, elbows resting on her knees and hands hanging between the gap. “Not with Saresh at the helm- her priorities are skewed, and we lost too many resources over the last few years. Over half of the shipyards on Corellia are still nonfunctional, and we’ve got holes in the fleet that only got worse with the Revanite mess.”

“Balmorra’s slowly getting their factories back online,” Captain Jorgan beside her provided, his voice a low growl that sent an unpleasant shiver down her spine even knowing the sullen suspicion wasn’t levelled at her. “Master Dawnstar’s Rift Alliance did good work getting them back into the fold, but they overcommitted themselves on Corellia, and it’ll be awhile before they can replace the numbers they lost.” 

“The Empire is no better,” Lana said flatly. “Even without the loss of Darth Marr and Darth Nox to steer the Council, the ongoing internal disputes have weakened us significantly. Between Malgus, the Dread Masters and Jadus, we’ve very nearly destroyed ourselves without even the input of the Republic. The fact that Zakuul walked right into Korriban without difficulty speaks volumes about our inability to defend ourselves.” 

Thexan snorted under his breath, a derogatory sound, and Ona’la glanced at him. She had a feeling that Lana’s dismissive assessment of the Korriban invasion had upset him, but she didn’t want to query it in front of the crowded room. 

“The loss of Ziost destabilized the civilian sectors of the Empire as well,” said Moff Pyron from where he sat near to Quinn. “A significant portion of the Ministry of Logistics was based on Ziost, and with the loss of staff and infrastructure, the day to day management of the Empire has suffered significantly.”

Tahrin keyed a few buttons on the console in front of her, and the holographic projector in the centre of the room hummed to life; a large image of the galactic map appeared suspended in the air, spinning slowly to make it visible to everyone. She pressed another button, and a large section of the map was highlighted in blue. “These are the current Republic territories, as of my last intelligence update,” she said, pressing another button and pausing as a second section of the map glowed red. “And these are the current Imperial territories.”

At the third button, a small gold strip appeared towards the bottom of the Republic territories. “And this is what we know of Zakuul’s expansion so far, but my efforts at reconnaissance in Wild Space have been largely hindered by the Alliance presence these last few months.”

Beside her, she felt Thexan go still. 

“I...” He hesitated when every eye in the room turned towards him again, and she very discreetly slid her fingers through his, out of sight of the rest of the room. He looked like he was struggling to get the words out. “I can correct that portion of the map.”

Tahrin stared at him, no indication on her face as to what she was thinking. “My linguistic team has not yet fully broken down Zakuul’s language,” she said after a moment, handing him a datapad and a tablet pen. 

Thexan’s flat stare might have made a lesser individual cringe, but Tahrin just returned the glare without blinking. “I can _write_ in Aurebesh,” he said tersely, almost spitting the words out, and she realised after a moment that he was _embarrassed_. 

“I would appreciate it,” Tahrin said. 

“Okay, sorry, I’ve got a question,” said a Devaronian with a broken horn lounging beside Ysaine. She elbowed him in the ribs but he pushed on. “Last I remember, he was one of those ‘ _grr brood die_ ’ folk who were making our lives so unpleasant in the first place, and I’m not so keen on working with people who want to kill me-”

“You’re a fucking liar, Rennow,” Ysaine said with a laugh. 

“Look, I’m just _saying_ what everyone is thinking, his side is gonna win and yet here he is sitting here all chummy like he wants to help us? We all just gonna play dumb and roll over and show our bellies?”

“Ain’t no one here asking about your kinks, Rennow,” the short blond man said from where he was all but draped over one of Ysaine’s legs, and she leaned forward and ruffled his hair. 

Ona’la didn’t find it as amusing as they did. “Thexan has no need to prove himself to you,” she snapped, starting to rise to her feet, but Xolani and Thexan both put a hand on each arm and kept her in her seat. Xolani was staring flatly across the room at the Devaronian, but Thexan had his head bowed as if he was just waiting desperately for the conversation to turn away from him. 

“Since it is apparently a cause for concern,” Tahrin said loudly, drawing attention back to her, “I will allow for some transparency on the matter. If the Battlemaster’s good faith is not proof enough for you of Thexan’s intent, then I will vouch for him also.”

Ona’la held back the instinctive shocked gasp, but only just; beside her, Thexan had gone rigid, as if in shock.

“And why exactly should you speaking for him be a point in his favour,” Major Hervoz drawled. “I mean, maybe all the good little Imps in the crowd are gonna click their heels together and salute blindly like the fascists they are-”

From somewhere towards the back of the room, Lord Thane made a scoffing noise, and Ona’la couldn’t help but feel like there was a history there. 

“But for the rest of us on the other side of the fence, I don’t really feel like the word of Vitiate’s private assassin is much to go on,” she finished. 

Tahrin sighed, the sound almost aggravated. “Then perhaps you would take the word of Vitiate’s _offspring_ ,” she said caustically. “One who shared the same abusive childhood, complete with complex brainwashing and crippling isolation coupled with physical training that would be considered torture under the Republic’s own constitution. Is it perhaps more understandable that such an individual would want to see Vitiate and everything he represented destroyed?” 

A horrified silence met her words, and even Ona’la- knowing the story as she did already- still winced and looked away, instead squeezing Thexan’s hand gently in hers. 

Finally Major Hervoz, with a dubious tone, said “ _You’re_ Vitiate’s kid? Honestly?”

“That is a very simplified deconstruction of our relationship, but in a sense, yes- he was one of my progenitors.”

The silence was replaced by uneasy murmurs, and then Ysaine said loudly “Gabby, you little shit, did you know that? You didn’t tell me I had devil niblings.” 

“Watch your mouth, you old cow, the kids are fine,” Lieutenant Pierce growled from where he was seated on Tahrin’s left. “She’s fine too, you know, so thanks for being worried about her.”

“I ain’t worried, I’m cautious, there’s a difference and it’s about staying alive around fucking space wizards.” 

The room very abruptly went colder, noticeably so, and Ona’la knew without a doubt that Tahrin was the source of the cold. “If we could please return to the topic at hand?” she asked with icy politeness. “If you doubt Thexan’s interest in this cause, you doubt my own. It is as straightforward as that.” 

“I can speak for myself,” Thexan said, his voice quiet but rough, as if he was fighting off the urge to growl and snarl and defend himself more aggressively. He didn’t look up, staring at the datapad in his hand. “I can’t undo the things I did while under my father’s thumb. People are dead. Worlds have been destroyed. I can’t change that. But it’s not over, it’s only going to get worse, and more people are going to die, and I’m-”

He broke off, as if overwhelmed, and his face was drawn and tight; Ona’la could feel him trembling ever so slightly. All she wanted to do was hold him, but she knew this wasn’t the time or the place, so she waited with everyone else. 

“I can make sure that _less_ people die,” he finished after a long moment, “and I can make sure that my father never has the opportunity to do to another person what he did to me.”

For a few tense seconds, nobody spoke, and then a male chiss with sullen body language seated at the back of the room said “He’s shit at rousing speeches.” 

It broke some of the tension in the room, a smattering of laughter rippling through, although Thexan didn’t seem to enjoy being the object of their amusement. “He’s not going to hurt you anymore,” she whispered, resisting the urge to reach over and cup his cheek in her palm. 

She saw him nod faintly. “I know,” he said quietly. 

“I’m proud of you.”

When he glanced at her, something about the honest vulnerability in his gaze took her breath away. “I know,” he said, just as quietly, before taking his hand out of her grip and settling in with the datapad, scribbling rapidly over the screen with the tablet pen. 

Tahrin was talking again, and Ona’la did her best to compose herself before turning her attention back to her, folding her hands together in her lap and hoping nobody had noticed the way they shook slightly. Her fingers were warm where they’d been entwined with his. 

“... already conducting emergency sessions,” Tahrin was saying, as she forced herself to concentrate. “The Dark Council met approximately a week ago, just after the declaration of war, as did the Republic Senate. The various Imperial Ministers also met in a separate session, and we have had word that Supreme Chancellor Saresh has assembled her own private taskforce-”

Someone snorted with laughter, and Ona’la had the distinct impression that it was Theron, and Major Hervoz was grinning pointedly at her too. She cringed slightly; apparently word of her infamous encounter with Saresh had travelled further than she’d first hoped. 

The conversation continued as Tahrin had most people in the room detail their encounters with Zakuul’s forces, be they the gold-clad knights or the relentless skytroopers, and through it all Malavai diligently took notes, with occasional details appearing on the display on the projector when Tahrin deemed it important enough. The general consensus was an unpleasant but inevitable one- that neither the Republic or the Empire had the strength to repel Zakuul’s incursion, and that even united in alliance they had no chance of withstanding the strength of this new power. 

At one point, Thexan sat back, assessing the scribbles he’d made all over the screen of the datapad, and then handed it back to Tahrin; she pressed a few buttons on the base, then another on the console in front of her, and then she flicked her finger over the screen as if she was trying to remove a bug. At the gesture, the map in front of them all flickered with static, and then suddenly the darker arms of the galactic spiral known as Wild Space were awash with gold, dozens of names appearing on the display. 

It was a huge region of space, and the sight of it drew uneasy murmurs from the room. Tahrin frowned as she leaned in closer to assess some of the newly named planets. “This is far more extensive than I expected,” she said, for the first time sounding uneasy. 

Thexan snorted, the sound humourless. “Zakuul is the Eternal Empire,” he said flatly. “What did you think we were an empire of? Empty swamps and a single citadel?” 

Ona’la frowned, trying to take the increasingly bleak news without crumbling beneath it. 

“If the purpose of this war is just yet another attempt by Vitiate to sow chaos and anarchy to feed upon,” Master Araya said, from where she sat near to Lord Thane- a friendship that Ona’la could not say she would ever have anticipated, “then in theory one would assume the quickest way to deny him that would be to bring an end to the conflict as quickly as possible. And if we stand no chance of winning, we should surrender.”

Her words drew a murmur of anger from the crowd, and even Ona’la winced slightly. She understood where Gataii was coming from, absolutely, but there was a time and a place for such tactless statements and an already tense war council was not it.

Luckily she did not need to be the one to voice that opinion aloud. At Gataii’s side, Lord Thane seemed about one heartbeat away from trying to tear out his hair. “And how precisely would you go about convincing the Dark Council itself to meekly lay down and surrender their arms to the very empire that our own ruler abandoned us for? Please, I’d love to hear exactly what it is I should say to convince Darth Mortis or Darth Acina that giving up is in our best interests? Oh, or Darth Ravage!”

“Not to mention Saresh is half convinced she can fight both empires with her hands tied behind her back,” Major Hervoz said almost glumly. “Even if it saved lives, she wouldn’t choose that over her hate.”

“That’s unkind, Major,” Ona’la found herself saying. 

Ellaz scoffed. “You haven’t been tied to a desk on Coruscant for almost a year now having to deal with her political bullshit. I’m as Republic as they come, but I wouldn’t be in this job if I wasn’t looking to help people on both sides of the fence, and she can’t see that there are innocents Imp side as well.”

“The invasion of Ziost was incredibly ill-conceived on her part,” Xolani said quietly, very pointedly not looking in Theron’s direction. He, similarly, did not look over at her, staring down at his hands. “I do not think they are the actions of a woman willing to listen to reason.”

“I am not interested in founding some sort of revolution to tear down both governments,” Tahrin said loudly. “I am accustomed to working from the shadows, and I believe our best work will be achieved if we remain out of sight of Zakuul and our respective factions.”

“Yes, but what are we working to achieve?” Ona’la asked. “Wanting to stop Vitiate is all well and good, but that’s an incredibly broad objective. Wanting to stop Zakuul, possibly while working at cross-purposes to what our own orders are, is just as vague.” 

Tahrin nodded to her, as if acknowledging her point. “It is not mere chance that sees you all gathered here,” she said, addressing the room as a whole. “You have each of you shaped pivotal events on the galactic stage- both politically and socially- these last few years, and it is my belief that we must look to building less traditional alliances in order to address this new threat. Each and every person here has something new and unique to offer to a war council, which is why I have seen to it that you have all been drawn to Yavin, either through direct invitation or careful planning.”

Ona’la looked around, and she couldn’t help but concede the point- the individuals gathered were of startling significance, regardless of where their political alignments lay. 

“There were others I had hoped to call upon,” Tahrin continued, “but circumstances made it impossible to contact them.” 

“Who were they, out of curiosity?” Major Hervoz asked. “I’m kinda curious who else might have been in our ragtag little rebellion.”

“As I have already said, Major, this is not a revolution or a rebellion- think of it simply as... a consortium of concerned citizens with a very particular skillset.”

“Alright- who else was gonna be in our consortium of concerned citizens?”

Tahrin breathed out sharply through her nose, and Ona’la got the impression it was somewhat of a sigh of frustration for her. “Not that it matters, but I had intended to approach Darth Imperius, the Barsen’thor, Lord Jen’zuska the Younger, the Voidhound, Lord Praven, Master Dawnstar of the Rift Alliance, Grandmaster Hervoz of the Green Jedi, and several prominently placed agents and military personnel within both the Empire and the Republic. Does that satisfy your curiosity, Major?”

Ellaz shrugged. “I guess.” 

“I still don’t get what the purpose of all of this is,” Theron said, waving a hand towards Tahrin and the console with the three factions flickering on the projected display. “It’s like Ona- it’s like the Battlemaster said, what’s the focus? How are we gonna do anything?”

Something flip flopped miserably in her stomach at the way that Theron veered away from using her name. _Don’t take pity on him_ , a voice in her head scolded. _Not after how he treated you._

She felt pressure against her leg and looked down, to find that Thexan had pressed his knee up against hers. He wasn’t quite looking at her, just sort of discreetly glancing sideways, but she knew what he was trying to do- either he’d picked up on Theron’s stumble too, and rightly guessed it would upset her, or he’d felt her distress. Either way, he’d reached out to her immediately, and knowing that made the misery churning in her belly ease off. 

“I don’t have any easy answers to that,” Tahrin said solemnly. “It would be very easy for me to dictate tasks to everyone, but I did not call you all here to become a dictator, and I suspect that more than one of you would strenuously object to my attempts to take the lead so forcefully.”

Beside her, she felt Xolani relax, and Ona’la remembered a moment later their discussions comparing Tahrin to Malgus, before they had arrived on Yavin in the first place. That, at least, was one less thing to worry about.

“I have ideas,” Tahrin continued, “some of which are sensible and some of which are foolhardy, but for the most part- for today, I should clarify- I simply wanted to draw you all together to see how everyone worked together. How the possibility of forming a stateless, neutral alliance would be met.” 

“They wouldn’t expect it,” Thexan said abruptly, surprising everyone by speaking at all. “Zakuul, I mean. We were led to believe that you were consumed by your squabbles, and that your rivalry would work in our favour.” 

“It’d only work in our favour for so long,” Theron said dubiously.

“Not if you kept to the shadows, as Lord Dara suggested,” Thexan countered. He hesitated, and glanced at Ona’la as if for reassurance. She nodded ever so slightly, pressing her knee back against his to encourage him; he gritted his teeth and turned back to the waiting audience, rising to his feet and stepping up beside Tahrin. “May I?” 

She didn’t show a trace of it in her expression, but Tahrin seemed pleased with his initiative. “By all means,” she said, gesturing to the control console. 

Taking a deep breath, Thexan pressed a few keys rapidly, and the gold faction expanded rapidly in two sweeping arcs. “Obviously it’s been a few months since I was last appraised of our- I mean, Zakuul’s intentions, sorry, but it should probably be noted straight away that they are just as anxious to avoid a drawn out engagement as you are. We’ve- _they’ve_ paid close attention to the last fifty years of conflict and they chose this time particularly because you are both remarkably weak and unable to defend yourselves for a prolonged period of time.”

He pressed another button, and the two sweeping arcs began to converge very ominously on two familiar locations on the galactic map. “They will avoid engaging with most planets, and will try to hold off on ground based invasions. I can almost guarantee that their primary objective will be a blockade of the capital planets, to try and force both governments to sign a ceasefire or surrender as soon as possible.” 

“As if the Dark Council would ever bend their knee to interlopers,” Lord Thane scoffed from the far side of the room. 

“They might not,” Thexan said, “but can you say the same for the civilian leaders? Lord Dara already said that the Imperial Ministers have met in a separate session to the Dark Council.”

Moff Pyron made a noise of displeasure. “The boy has a point,” he conceded grudgingly. “Adhering to the pride and the egos of the sith is one thing, but we’ve already lost Ziost- if they threaten Dromund Kaas as well, it won’t take long for the civilian government to make concessions, with or without the Dark Council.”

“Saresh won’t budge,” Captain Jorgan said, looking grim. “And the Senate will be a hard sell too, caught up in red tape the way they are. We’d need a bloc to negotiate with.”

“Hence why I wanted the Barsen’thor here, or Master Dawnstar,” Tahrin said wryly. “As the Jedi attaché to the Senate and the Chancellor’s office, Master Adhi might have offered us some insight into the factions within the current Senate. Master Dawnstar could have offered us the support of the Rift Alliance bloc outright, and saved us the bother of trying to establish a foothold.”

Thexan cleared his throat awkwardly, and Tahrin stepped back again, offering him the opportunity to speak again. “Regardless of how much has changed since I- _left_ ,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation, “I am certain that will be their first objective. Break through to the capital worlds and establish a blockade.” 

“But we can’t _stop_ that from happening,” Major Ellaz said, clearly frustrated. “Even united, we don’t have the sort of defences that can hold out against that fleet of yours.”

“I wasn’t expecting us to find an answer immediately,” Tahrin said. “As I said, this was merely to test the waters.”

The room was simmering with frustrations and unspent energy from two dozen or more egos fighting for space, and it wasn’t doing anyone any favours. Ona’la knew what she had to do, and she rose to her feet. 

“Lord Wrath,” she said, raising her voice to make sure she had the attention of everyone in the room. “I am humbled by the faith you place in me, and you have my commitment to this alliance for as long as I am able to serve both it and the Republic without conflict.”

She couldn’t be sure, but she would have sworn that Tahrin relaxed marginally. “You have my thanks, Battlemaster,” she said, bowing her head to her. 

“Not that we have the numbers to present a reasonable threat anymore, but you have the support of the Sixth Line,” Xolani said at her side. “I’ve endured first hand what the ambitions and rivalries of politicians and empires can do to the ordinary citizens of the galaxy, and I’ll not stand by idly if I can help it.”

Ellaz made a snorting sound. “Ah, what the hell,” she said, the Corellian drawl in her voice stronger than ever. “I know when I’m being stonewalled, and Havoc wasn’t meant for desk duty. You’ve got me.”

“You’ve got _us_ ,” Aric corrected with a growl.

“I believe I’ve already committed myself in agreeing to study the two sites that Vitiate acted upon,” Watcher One said quietly, “but in case that wasn’t taken as a formal declaration, I stand by this alliance.”

Lana’s expression was somewhat brittle, as if she was only just maintaining a facade of calm, and Ona’la knew she was thinking of Kallathe. “I’ve already infiltrated Zakuul once,” she said. “And I was growing tired of Kaas City bureaucratic tape.” 

One by one they went around the room, every one of them agreeing with the speaker before them- that this was far too big for political divisions to matter. With each new pledge, Ona’la felt something in her chest grow warmer, and she found herself grinning hopelessly, because to see so many different people setting aside their differences for a cause bigger than themselves, to protect the people who could not fight for themselves... it was one of the proudest moments of her life. 

Finally Thexan and Tahrin were the last two left, standing at the front of the room together, and she was very abruptly aware of how similar they were- not necessarily their physical appearance, although the resemblance was there. Their body language, the way they held themselves at rest, was like they were a mirror image of one another. 

The Wrath had broken away from Vitiate’s control. She had friends, a family- she was on the brink of founding a rebellion to destroy him. 

There was hope for Thexan. 

As if he knew she was thinking about him, he glanced over at her, his expression solemn and unreadable, before he looked back to Tahrin. “You have my support,” he said, his voice clear and without hesitation. “I do not want to hurt my brother, but I... I cannot condone his actions. My knowledge of Zakuul, of the fleets, and- and of Arcann, they are yours.”

Tahrin finally smiled, as she had when she had greeted Thexan on their arrival. “Marvellous,” she said, turning back to the room. “Perhaps we should break for lunch?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously I took some liberties with how extensive the Eternal Empire is compared to canon, but at this point I assume everyone is used to me driving over canon with a train. Also the fact that the entire western quadrant of the galactic map is uncharted annoys me, because as Thessa pointed out chapters and chapters ago- "just because you call this the Unknown Regions does not mean we sat around idly waiting for the mighty Sith to come and find us". I figure there's far more going on out there than we see.


	32. Chapter 32

“You must be pleased with the direction the talks are taking so far, Lord Dara,” Ona’la said, from where the two of them stood on the overhead balcony watching the proceedings below. They’d never properly reassembled after lunch, the conversations that had sprouted up over the meal instead carrying over into the afternoon, everyone breaking off into groups and pairs to discuss the revelations of the morning. Thexan, for example, was seated with Major Hervoz and Moff Pyron, the two of them arguing relentlessly and occasionally allowing Thexan to interject with his observations; the conversation, as far as she knew, had started with a humble question about the nature of the Eternal Fleet’s defensive capabilities, and had quickly dissolved into a stand-off over the dubious effectiveness of the Silencer weapon. 

Thexan looked like he was waiting in a panic for the ground to vanish beneath him, and Ona’la was debating whether it was infantilizing of her to rush down and rescue him.

“Must I?” Tahrin asked, startling her. When Ona’la glanced at her, she shrugged. “People telling me how I must be feeling has always perplexed me. I scarcely understand it myself, so I have no idea why others would think they have some magical insight into my thought processes.”

“No, no, it’s-” She bit the inside of her cheek to stop from laughing, the literalism of her interpretation reminding her so much of Thexan that it hurt. “It’s a figure of speech. I didn’t mean to imply anything- it was just my way of asking if you were happy with how things were proceeding.” 

“In a sense,” Tahrin replied. “I would prefer for this whole mess to be unnecessary, but I suppose I am not to be so lucky.”

She could see Theron sitting with the chiss woman, Watcher One, and it might have intrigued her had she not already known that they’d worked together in dismantling the early stages of the Revanite conspiracy. “Why do it at all?” she asked, gesturing to the people in the hall, so many different species and genders and nationalities. “You could have hidden away on this moon quite comfortably with your family, and ignored the events going on past your borders. It’s not the sort of thing I’d expect from-” 

_From a sith_ , she meant to say, realising too late how sneering that sounded.

Tahrin apparently knew what she’d stopped herself from saying anyway, the hint of a smile playing over her lips; Ona’la got the impression that smiling was not something that came naturally to her, and that it was something she had to work at. “I think they would surprise you, Battlemaster,” she said. “There are intelligent people amongst the sith, for all that your Order would issue a blanket condemnation of them.”

“I know there are,” Ona’la said. “I’ve met several.” _And helped them to find their way to the light_ , she didn’t add. Hesitating for a moment, she said “You don’t consider yourself sith, then?”

She actually snorted in amusement, something Ona’la didn’t think was possible. “I have spent my entire life having my place determined by others. I may find a label for myself, I may not- but for the time being, I am enjoying the novelty of being nothing.” 

It was such a powerful statement, and Ona’la felt like she was seeing her in a new light- perhaps not so much as a terrifying warrior, and a little more mortal, just like she was. She despised it when people refused to see her, and only saw the golden promise of the Battlemaster, so perhaps... perhaps Lord Dara- _Tahrin_ , she corrected- felt the same.

What courage it must take for her to step away from everything she’d ever known, and start again with a blank slate. Being a Jedi was so much a part of Ona’la’s sense of self identity, she couldn’t imagine what it would be like to simply walk away from it. 

“I’m curious,” she said slowly, leaning on the railing of the balcony, “how it is that you were able to afford such an endeavour in the first place. I mean, I know sith like to hoard their own treasures, but you didn’t strike me as being like that.”

Tahrin glanced at her, amusement in her eyes. “My mother, during her tenure as a Sith Lord, accrued a very extensive personal fortune, the entirety of which she deposited with the financial institutions on Aargau,” she said. “Granted, it was a little difficult gaining access to accounts that had been declared abandoned several centuries ago, but amongst Malavai’s many talents is a thorough understanding of financial regulatory law. Combine that with my reputation, and the Intergalactic Banking Clan were more than happy to oblige me.” 

Ona’la could imagine that having to reinstate an account with three hundred or so years of compound interest was the absolute last thing that would make the Banking Clans happy, but she wasn’t about to say so out loud.

“Thank you,” Tahrin said abruptly, her voice so quiet that it was almost swallowed up by the noise of the arguments from below. “I appreciate your cooperation in everything so far- you have been almost ludicrously understanding, of everything I have asked of you.” 

It didn’t seem like an easy thing for her to say, so Ona’la smiled gently. “It has been an honour to work with you,” she said. “I just hope I have been worthy of your trust.” 

Tahrin snorted again, but the sound seemed far less amused than before. “Even rescuing Thexan alone would see you worthy of my trust and gratitude,” she said, staring at the far wall with the same sort of stilted, awkward body language that she recognised in Thexan. 

“You really care for him? Despite only having met?”

She glanced at her. “I know what he’s survived,” she said, “and I know how hard it is to survive it alone. I... I am grateful he does not have to go through it alone.”

Ona’la felt her breath catch in her chest- it almost sounded like an acknowledgment from Tahrin that she knew of her complicated feelings towards him. 

Before she could ask, Tahrin looked away, to where Thexan was seated below. “I have already lost one brother,” she said quietly. “I will not lose another when it is in my power to stop this madness.”

____

“Lord Beniko?”

Lana looked up from her notes, to find the jedi commander standing on the other side of the table. Her stomach fell down into her shoes, and she couldn’t help but wonder whether Theron or Ona’la had mentioned in their Ziost reports her request to keep Master Surro for more invasive study. She couldn’t imagine what else could have driven Xolani to seek her out.

All the same, she set her things down and offered a terse smile, folding her hands together in front of her. “Commander Xo,” she said, “what can I do for you?”

The greeting apparently was not appropriate, because she saw her wince before she managed to cover it. “Master Xo is fine,” she said. “Or even Xolani. I’m afraid I’m not quite accustomed to the burden of leadership as of yet.”

_What few of you there are left to lead_ , her brain prompted unkindly, and Lana blanched, hastily looking away. “Yes well,” she said awkwardly, “it is not ever a weight one grows familiarised with, in my experience.”

“That is what I meant to talk to you about, actually,” Xolani said, sliding into the seat opposite her and clasping her hands together almost primly on the table. Her expression was pinched, as if she found it unpleasant to talk to her but was soldiering onwards out of politeness. It was hardly the first time a Jedi had feigned awkward civility in her company. “As I understand it, you are the Minister for Sith Intelligence, am I correct?”

Lana smiled thinly. “I’m sure it doesn’t count for much these days, but yes, I am. I suppose after the mess I made of Ziost, and the Korriban invasion, things might be extraordinarily different once I return to Kaas City.”

“So you intend to return,” Xolani prompted. “You think you can best serve this alliance from your offices on the capital?” 

Hesitating for a moment, Lana decided to gamble on bluntness. “What is this about, Master Xo?” she asked. “I’ve never been one for word games, I appreciate plain speech. What is it you wish to know?”

Xolani hesitated as well, and Lana took a moment to assess her closely. They were perhaps of a similar age, although she suspected Master Xo to have a few more years than she- both old enough to have served on the frontlines prior to the Treaty of Coruscant, both old enough to have seen the Cold War drag itself ponderously back towards open war again. Xolani’s dark, springy hair was greying, the elegantly twisted locs threaded through with pale grey, and there were lines around her eyes that seemed to be shaped more from grief than from laughter. 

And then Master Xo said the last thing she expected her to say. “I understand what it is, to lose the woman you love,” she said quietly. “To see her lost in pursuit of something far greater and far more important than the bond you share, and to wonder if you will ever hear her speak your name again.”

Lana thought that she might have gasped, but she couldn’t be sure. 

“Surro has her more... lucid days,” Xolani continued, “but my wife is gone. On the rare occasion that she recognises me, it is never a joyous reunion- she screams and she panics and she cries, because she cannot bear for me to see her like that, or she believes me to be an apparition Vitiate has placed in her brain to torment her.”

Lana breathed out slowly, something hot and uncomfortable burning in her chest. “If this is some attempt at comfort, Master Xo, I cannot say that I find-”

Xolani waved a hand. “No, no, it’s not- well.” Her lips twisted ruefully, not so much a smile as a grimace. “Every day I am consumed with the grief and the guilt that I did not go with her- that she suffered alone. Wondering whether or not things might have turned out differently, had I been there with her on Ziost.” She took a deep breath, her dark eyes piercing as she stared grimly at her. “I know, logically, that this is not the case, but the heart has never been logical, now, has it Lord Beniko?” 

“Not in my experience, no,” Lana said faintly. 

“I know that if there were an opportunity for me to get her back, whole and healthy and unbroken by Vitiate’s torture, I would take it,” Xolani continued. “It might be something that put the entire Republic at risk, the entire galaxy, but if it brought my love back to me?” She shrugged. “I could not guarantee I wouldn’t choose her.”

“If you have a point, Master Xo, I’d suggest you make it.”

“I don’t trust you, Lord Beniko,” Xolani said bluntly, her expression flat like stone. “Because you know the way into Zakuul, and I know that were I in your position, I would be struggling to weigh up my loyalty to a fledgling alliance half composed of my enemies, against the life and safety of the woman I loved above all others.” 

Lana sat back slowly, both furious and impressed at her audacity. “I don’t really know many people who would be bold enough to say as such to my face,” she said, just as flatly. 

“Perhaps you have fallen prey to the Sith preference for surrounding oneself with sycophantic lackeys who will never gainsay you or bruise your ego.” 

She took her in, the hard lines of her shoulders, the proud jut of her chin as she stared her down, the muted colours of her robes far too plain for a Commander and Jedi Council member. “Surro was younger than you, wasn’t she?” she asked slowly. 

Clearly Xolani had not been expecting that line of questioning, because she did not hide her look of surprise. “She was,” she said after a moment, “eight years difference.”

Lana looked down at her hands, hoping that they weren’t visibly shaking. “Younger women can be such a handful sometimes, can’t they?” she asked hesitantly. “Far too much energy. Always getting into trouble.”

Something in Xolani relaxed as she recognised what Lana was doing. “Always charging in without thinking,” she said, adding to the conversation.

“Exactly!” Lana said. “They think themselves to be immortal just by wont of their youth.”

“They do at that,” Xolani said sadly. “Lord Beniko, I will be frank with you- I do not necessarily trust your intentions, but I feel I understand them. And I would like to help you.”

Lana sat back in alarm. “Help me?” she said. “Help me in what?”

“I assume that eventually you are going to attempt to return to Zakuul,” Xolani said. “I have no desire to return to Coruscant at this point, because there is nothing there for me but a wife who can barely recognise me, an apartment that feels empty without her, and an Order that offers me only tepid compassion while their eyes say ‘ _this is what comes from having attachments_ ’. I am tired, and I am angry, and I fear that my colleagues only involve me out of pity.” 

Lana stared at her, taking in her words carefully; finally she licked her lips and sat forward. 

“What did you have in mind?”

____ 

“What’s the cloaking tech they use?”

“I don’t know that either,” Thexan said, gritting his teeth in frustration. “As I’ve already said, my understanding of the Fleet is limited to what I was able to learn during the first invasion, while I was responsible for the strike force. My father guarded his secrets jealously.”

“Maybe it _is_ sort of like that adegan crystal method that Malgus was using,” Ellaz said thoughtfully, glancing around at those gathered in the hall. “I can’t remember, was anyone here on Ilum when that happened?”

“It’s not crystals,” Thexan said wearily. “The Fleet has a... sentience, I suppose is the word. An artificial intelligence, which is why they’re faster and more responsive than any other ship.”

“So they’re droids? Damn son, I’ve got a droid, you can’t tell those fuckers what to do, you expect me to believe Vitiate got a whole battalion of them to-”

“I suspect the Eternal Fleet is significantly different in temperament to Forex, dear,” Captain Jorgan said patiently. 

“I don’t suppose you have any concrete figure on the number of ships in the Fleet,” Pyron asked dubiously, eyeing Ellaz with a look of distaste. “Or perhaps a rough estimate, if nothing else- or, possibly, is there a fixed ratio of those capital ships to the smaller cruisers, and can they function without the capital ship to-” 

“And what’s the range of their shields? I’ve seen footage from some of the earlier battles, and it looks to me like the capital ships have a far greater shield capability than the smaller ships, so do the smaller ships generate their own shields at all or is it all transferred through the capitals?”

“There’s a thought,” Pyron said, angling his body towards the Major. “If it’s an artificial intelligence, perhaps each capital ship acts as a focus point for the sentience, and the battleships around it are controlled by them in groups, rather than as a whole.”

“It would allow for more rapid response time to localized threats,” Ellaz said, rubbing her chin thoughtfully. 

“We have a pod aboard the _Doombringer_ at this very moment, perhaps it would be worth reestablishing the power and seeing if it attempts to make contact with the Fleet, we might be able to study the signal and find a way to circumvent it.”

Thexan wasn’t used to this sort of... enthusiasm. Or debate, he wasn’t used to a scenario where people yelled and argued and exchanged increasingly more outrageous opinions before deciding on a course of action that to him seemed only just shy of suicidal. 

“Moff Pyron, you sly dog, are you flirting with me?”

Thexan blinked. Alright, no, this was well and truly outside of his realm of experience. 

“My dear Major Hervoz, as much as I admire your achievements on and off the battlefield, I am hardly foolish enough to try to woo you whilst your husband watches.”

There was a strange noise rumbling through his flesh, and Thexan realised after a moment that the giant furred alien beside Major Hervoz was _growling_ softly. His skin crawled at the sound, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end as his gut kicked into gear with the panicked prey response; with some difficulty, he scowled and swallowed down the sour taste of fear in his mouth, looking away. 

“Come on, Aric baby, you’re making the kid nervous, look.”

The scowl turned more genuine. “Don’t call me kid,” he said.

“Well what the hell, you said I can’t call you son, and you said in there that you don’t wanna be the prince anymore so that rules out ‘ _your highness_ ’ which is the last one you let me use, so what do you want me to call you?” 

He stared down at his hands. “Just Thexan,” he said. No titles or affectionate nicknames- it wasn’t quite a blank slate, but it was something. 

____ 

Theron found him in the spa suite, utterly unsurprised by the fact that he’d ignored the massage tables and the luxury skin treatments in favour of sitting fully clothed in the fountain cascading through the ceiling. He couldn’t really blame him- he was finding the humidity unpleasant enough, and he at least had the benefit of being human. 

Thake had his eyes closed as he sat beneath the spray, but Theron was sure he knew he’d entered; he didn’t say anything, or tense noticeably, but he could tell that he knew. He wasn’t sure how he knew that, but...

He cleared his throat loudly, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “So,” he said, dragging the single syllable out as he scrambled for words, “I guess we should talk.”

From where he sat under the water, Thake snorted, apparently amused. 

His ego had already taken multiple beatings so far today, what with the whole getting Bobbi and Ellaz captured for five minutes and Ona’la looking at him like he drowned puppies for fun when she’d found out he’d followed her- he’d been worried about _her_ , damn it- so he wasn’t really feeling as patient as he might have been normally. 

“That’s all you got to say?” he said, something angry and petty creeping into his tone. “Just gonna laugh and leave it at that?” 

Thake very pointedly said “Ha. Ha.” 

Theron felt his face heat with embarrassment. “You know it’s just, most of the time- most _normal_ people- would want to talk to someone they travelled with for a couple of months and got close to and had a _moment_ with.”

Thake’s eyes finally blinked open, the red glowing faintly in the dim lighting of the room. “Use your big boy words, Shan, we fucked each other’s hands on a filthy table in a filthy ship on a filthy planet. That’s not so hard to say, now, is it?” 

“Wow. It’s so good to see you too.”

“What were you hoping for, Shan?” Thake asked, climbing abruptly to his feet; he’d apparently shucked his regular long coat in the heat, as well as his boots, and as he stepped out from under the cascade Theron blinked at the sight of his shirt clinging tight to his torso, water sluicing down his bare arms as he flicked his wet hair out from his eyes. Fuck. “Were you hoping I’d walk in dramatically, an orchestral fanfare playing in the background as I crossed the crowded room and dragged you into my arms and mercilessly kissed the breath out of you while everyone applauded?”

After a few beats of silence, Theron realised that Thake was waiting for an answer, and he was grateful for the bad lighting and the fact that his face had already been flushed; hopefully the fact that he’d been distracted by that imagery wouldn’t be obvious. “What, a man can’t dream?” he joked weakly. 

Thake cocked his head to the side, still standing knee deep in the fountain. “I don’t understand you, Shan,” he said, and because he was paying attention, he caught the faint traces of a Csaplar accent in his pronunciation. He’d had whispers filter through to him that they’d fled from Zakuul via Csilla, and given how obsessive Thake had been about distancing himself from any mention of the Ascendancy, the choice to go through Chiss space was suddenly a lot more intriguing. “What in all the frozen hells do you think is going to happen between us, hmm?” 

“I don’t know,” he said, painfully self-conscious and well aware of how Thake stared at him like he was a curiosity. “I just thought-” 

“Well, there’s your problem,” Thake said candidly. “Thinking is very bad for you. Gets you into all sorts of trouble.” 

“You spent three million credits on a ship,” Theron said, trying to press him for any kind of reaction at all, _anything_. “That has to mean something.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Then why did you do it?”

“Why are you so determined for it to mean something?” Thake said instead. “We fucked. It was almost a year ago. Move on.”

He didn’t want to admit it, but it made something cold and painful stab into his gut to hear that dismissal. “Why’d you go to Zakuul?” he asked instead, to cover the awkward moment of emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. He hoped Thake would ignore the way his voice wobbled slightly. 

“Same reason I went to Manaan, and to Rishi, and to Yavin, and to every other shithole in this galaxy that Thessa drags me to,” he said. “To keep her from killing herself, or at least so that I don’t miss out on the drama when it happens, and to see how much I can fuck with for shits and giggles.” 

Thake went to move past him, dripping water onto the elegant tiled floor as he went, when Theron cleared his throat again. “You know,” he said, “I never did get what your deal is with her.”

Thake paused, gaze flicking to him almost sneeringly. “What deal?” 

“Thessa. She’s uh... very much not your sort of- person.”

The sneer turned into a smirk. “Jealous, are we?” he purred. 

Theron swallowed the lust that came from that sound and that smile, and instead said “It’s just weird, is all. Is she your sister?” 

The smirk vanished. “She’s my mother,” he said, in a monotone.

“Uh... okay, I know chiss age weirdly, but I’m pretty sure that’s a lie.”

“I’m her father.”

“... okay, again, that’s definitely a lie because I know she’s older than you-”

“She’s my great, great grandmother and I’ve travelled from the distant future using ancient Gree technology to ensure that she survives long enough to save the galaxy.”

Theron held up his hands in defeat. “You know what, never mind.” 

Thake very abruptly leaned in close, enough for Theron to take a step backwards in alarm; he tsked in disappointment at him. “I know I’m irresistible,” he said, his voice sultry and his mouth close enough to his that Theron actually thought he meant to loom in and kiss him for a moment, “but you, of all people, should know that lust isn’t love, that love doesn’t offer you a magical barrier against the horrors of the world, and that good people suffer needlessly while bad people continue to be irredeemable. You are in the first category, whereas I am most firmly in the latter.” 

“You’re not a bad person,” Theron said immediately, tensing his jaw when he felt his cheeks heat at the pitying look Thake gave him. “If you were, you wouldn’t be here. You wouldn’t still be helping Thessa. You wouldn’t be warning me away from you.” 

“It’s called self preservation,” Thake drawled, straightening and flicking the water that was running down his fingers in his direction; Theron did his best not to flinch at the splatter of it across his face. “I’m a coward, and I like not being dead. You should try it sometime.”

He reached over and patted Theron firmly on the cheek, almost fondly, and then squelched out of the room, his bare feet slapping wetly on the tiles as he left. 

Theron stood there for some time, trying to muddle through the mess of his feelings- okay, so he hadn’t exactly been expecting grand proclamations of love and devotion, but maybe a hello would have been nice? Even some vague acknowledgement of who he was as a person?

_This is exactly what you get for messing around with Imps_ , said a voice at the back of his head that sounded suspiciously like it’d been chatting with his mother. 

With a grunt of annoyance, he turned to leave- and let out a most undignified shout when he saw the silent figure of the Wrath standing in the doorway behind him. “Kriffing- fuck, don’t sneak up on a guy like that!” he said, brushing shaking hands down the front of his jacket. It was something to do with his hands to try and hide the fact that they _were_ shaking, but he didn’t think he was precisely succeeding. He stuffed them in his pockets instead. “Don’t you sith normally announce your presence with, I dunno, maniacal laughter or something?”

Tahrin simply stared at him. “Does _Lana_ announce her presence with maniacal laughter?” she asked, and after a moment of confusion he realised that she was making a _joke_. The Wrath was trying to joke around with him- well, wasn’t that just the most skin-crawling thing he’d had happen to him all week. 

“Only sometimes,” he deadpanned, trying to bluster his way out of the conversation with more humour. “You have to catch her in the right mood. Which, speaking of, I really need to talk to her, so I’ll just-”

“You are still uncomfortable in my presence, Theron,” she said bluntly, apparently not bothered by this revelation. 

He stopped himself from backing away by extreme effort only, a pained expression on his face. “Well, maybe I’m just not so good with having Sith in the family, who knew,” he said. “It’s hard enough dealing with my mother, now I have to deal with my... cousin, or something, being the most notorious sith in the Empire.”

“Technically I’m closer to being your great-aunt. Would you find it more comfortable to refer to me as Aunt Wrath?” 

She said it with such a straight face that for a long, agonizing moment he froze; were it anyone else in the galaxy he would have known straight away that it was a joke, but with her? If he laughed, and she’d been serious, he didn’t want to even imagine what she’d do to him. 

But after a moment her lip quirked, as if she was attempting to smile, and he awkwardly forced a smile in return. “I wanted to apologise,” she said, her tone so flat that he might have suspected insincerity on her part were he not somewhat used to her mannerisms. “I made things difficult between yourself and the Battlemaster in front of everyone. That was unnecessary on my part.”

“Uh...” He swallowed nervously. “Thank you?” 

“I will speak to her on your behalf, should you require it.”

Somehow he couldn’t imagine that the Wrath was all that good at soothing hurt feelings, given that he wasn’t sure she had any of her own. “No, no, that’s uh... I’m good. Should probably... man up and do it myself, I guess.” 

She nodded, and turned to leave, but she paused a moment later, her head turned slightly back towards him. “He kept the ship,” she said simply. 

Theron blinked at her in confusion. “What?”

“The ship,” she repeated. “From Rishi. He kept it.”

Oh kriffing fuck, just exactly how long had she been listening at the door for her to know there was a specific ship with a specific history for him and Thake? “Well, he did spend a lot of money on it,” he said, shrugging. “Can’t imagine he’d just want to dump it somewhere.”

“It is...” Her mouth twisted, and he got the impression she was actually trying not to laugh. The Wrath. _Laughing_. “He renamed it, but his grasp of humour in Basic is perhaps not as good as he likes to pretend it is.”

Wary now, Theron said “Well, don’t keep me in suspense, what’s the punchline here?”

“He named it the Chandelier,” she said, and continued towards the door. 

He frowned. _The Chandelier?_ “Wait,” he called after her. What the fuck does that mean, he wanted to ask, but instead he said “How do you know all of... that?”

She shrugged. “Because he works for me,” she said simply, as if that answered everything and didn’t open a thousand other doors with questions bursting out of them. “And say it phonetically. And slowly.” 

She left him there, frowning in the dim light of the spa as he tried to puzzle out her meaning. 

“Chandelier? Shan-de-leer-”

_Wait._

____ 

“Tatooine?”

“Oh, that’s easy, that shitty little dive in Mos Eisley, the Rancor’s Spit?”

“Hah! I remember that! We were trying to convince them to do a musical talent night, right?”

Pierce wandered over and slumped down onto the couch next to Ysaine, rubbing aggressively at his eyes that felt increasingly like they were full of sand. He’d been up since before sunup with Connie, and the lack of sleep was beginning to drag at him. “What the fuck are you old birds talking about?” he asked, glancing between her and the platinum blonde sitting across from them. 

His sister looked at him and rolled her eyes, reaching over as if she meant to ruffle his hair, but he ducked out of the way. “Hey, watch it, I ain’t four- and I’m big as you these days.”

“Yeah, but you’re still a little shit,” she drawled. She nodded towards her companion. “Captain Voresh and I were just reminiscing.”

“You two know each other?” 

Captain Voresh snickered in amusement. “Do you mean, do we know each other, or do we _know_ each other, because the answer to both-”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, I can see why you two are friends, why the fuck would I want to know that about my own sister?”

Ysaine was grinning at him with all the smug glee of a teenager, not a woman pushing fifty. “We’re naming planets, the other one has to say where we met up on the planet, extra points for extra details.” 

He rubbed at his eyes again. “Are you _actually_ twelve?” he asked. 

“What? What’re we gonna contribute to your mighty fine war council, we ain’t generals or anything-”

“I’m _really_ good at cheating at sabaac,” Captain Voresh said enthusiastically. “Do you think they’ll agree to conduct the war as a sabaac game? If so, we’re in with a shot.”

Pierce sighed. “I’m gonna nap,” he grumbled, slouching down on the couch. “Wake me if the kids start wailing or if Tahrin starts glaring.”

“Isn’t that her resting expression? How the fuck do you tell when she’s mad?”

“Shut your mouth, you old cow.”

“Aww, your widdle brother is _adorable_ ,” he heard Captain Voresh coo as he drifted off.

From where he rested against her shoulder, he felt Ysaine snort. “Yeah,” she said fondly. “He ain’t half bad, all things considered.”

____ 

“I want to have a baby, Vector.”

The waterfall roared in the background, masking the sounds of their conversation from any who might be inclined to eavesdrop as they sat beneath the vine covered eaves of the pergola. Not that it was anything taboo or sinister they were discussing, of course, but Thessa wasn’t really interested in everyone being nosy in her personal affairs. 

Vector paused in that particular way of his, head cocked ever so slightly to the side as he and the hive processed the statement together. There was no judgement in his expression, no frown or grimace. “We already have a child, love,” he said, his melodic voice gentle but firm as he set his teacup back on the small table between them. “Do you wish for us to recover her from your family, or do you-”

“I want a _baby_ , Vector,” she repeated, her voice breaking on the words. “Demi is already a child and already- she was _afraid_ of me, Vector, she didn’t know me and she only spent any time with me in the first place because the House required it. I’ve- _we’ve_ lost her.”

“She is still our daughter, love. She still bears the touch of our auras.”

“We are _nothing_ to her,” she said, and stars but it hurt to say it. “I was a _stranger_ to her, and she was a frightened little girl glad to be away from me. I want-” She broke off when she felt the tears slip onto her cheeks, closing her eyes and wishing for once that she was capable of controlling her emotions, just once. “I want to have a _family_ ,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I want to build a life with you and I want to have a chance to be a mother and hold my own child in my arms.”

Vector shifted his chair and turned it towards her carefully, his gestures all very slow and controlled, as if she were a skittish grophet he was expecting to flee. He reached for her, and she did not pull away as he slowly ran his hands up the outside of her arms, drawing her onto his lap and into his embrace. She liked the fact that she could fit comfortably in his arms without ever feeling too large or too cumbersome, and she liked the cool, pine-tinged scent of him, as if he had only moments earlier been walking in the snowy glades favoured by the Oroboro nest on Alderaan. Whether it was some pheromone that his connection to the hive allowed him to exude as a means to comfort her, or whether it was just naturally a part of who he was now after nearly a decade as a Joiner, she could not say.

But it calmed her, the smell of snow and frozen earth and pine and sap, and she relaxed into his hold. 

“We want you to be happy,” he said softly, almost hesitantly, “but we do not want you to make such a decision in haste.”

“We lost Demi years ago, Vector-”

“And we will have many years more to make her acquaintance again,” he said patiently. “We desire nothing more than to see to your happiness, and it breaks our heart to have lost our daughter for now. But a second child would not be a replacement for her.”

She felt her fingers curl slightly against his chest, as if she wanted to grip tight to his shirt and never let go. “I _know_ that,” she said, her voice breaking again. “It’s not like I can forget her.” 

“And we doubt that she will forget us, and should she ever seek us out when she is of an age to make that choice for herself, what will she think to see us with another child, safe and beloved at our side, as she herself was denied?” 

His hands were rubbing soothing patterns onto her back, his forearms stroking along her ribs as he did so, some sort of kilik gesture that she had no hope of ever understanding but could appreciate for the comfort it was supposed to impart. 

“I would love her,” Thessa whispered, tears burning at her eyes, “if I could.”

“We know you would, love.” 

“I did not mean for us to lose her.”

“We know.” 

She hiccuped on a sob. “I want a baby,” she said, hiding the words in the fabric over his shoulder.

He was quiet for a long, long moment, and she had begun to think he either hadn’t heard her, or meant to ignore her. Finally, he sighed. “Let us speak to Doctor Lokin, then,” he said quietly. “Perhaps it will be easier this time, having all the research notes from the first attempt.”

____ 

“This is the most incredibly stupid thing I have ever agreed to be a part of,” Maurevar said, lounging back on the steps as he stared out over the jungle; the stone was warm beneath him, probably too warm if he was being honest, but he didn’t want to get up and go back inside the hall where everyone was talking too loud and being too cheerful and enthusiastic and pretending like anything they did mattered. 

Beside him, sitting far more elegantly than his sprawled pose, Gataii laughed softly. “Some of the stories you’ve told me of your youth would beg to differ,” she said, her oddly breathless way of speaking no longer unusual to him after months of living and working together. 

He scowled. “There’s a difference between youthful ignorance leading you into stupidity, and actively committing oneself to treason and suicide.”

“If memory serves, Maurevar, you did _actively_ commit yourself to Malgus’ coup attempts...”

He groaned loudly and pointedly, flopping back on the stone and staring up at the sky. “Yes, thank you, because nobody has allowed me to forget that in all the years since that happened, it had quite slipped my mind, thank you for that. It’s not like I got banished to a feral world to work as nothing more than a clean up supervisor as a result of it.”

“Perhaps it was necessary for you to walk such a path in order for you to find yourself here today, where you have a chance to do good.”

“I really hate your whimsical bullshit about destiny, you know.” 

She smiled faintly. “The Force has a purpose for all of us, Maurevar.”

“The Force is not some benevolent guiding deity, it’s not even truly sentient, not in the way we understand sentience. It’s simply about power and about finding better ways to accumulate power.” 

The look she gave him was wry. “You don’t believe that,” she said.

He snorted. “Does it matter what I believe? I’ve thrown myself in with this lot to hunt down a dead man’s ghost while we fight an unstoppable empire, and I’m complaining about it to a Jedi pariah. Nothing makes sense anymore.” When she didn’t answer, he glanced over at her and sighed when he saw her eyes vacant and glowing faintly, tipping his head back towards the sun as he waited for her to be done with whatever had caught her attention this time.

When she shook herself several minutes later, he drawled “Tell me at least that you saw us victorious and disgustingly wealthy.”

“Mm,” she said dreamily, as if she was still half caught in the vision; it always took her a time to settle again after she’d been swept away by the Force to witness things past and present and potential. “Nothing of interest to you.”

“Well now I’m just hurt.” 

“Maybe the Force would send me secret notes for you if you didn’t keep hurting its feelings,” she said archly. 

“It’s alright for you,” he said petulantly. “This is basically a step up for you-”

“And not you?” she asked pointedly. “If I recall correctly, Maurevar, you are just as ostracized from your Order as I am, but at least my only failing was the misfortune of my old master and my inability to control my visions. I’m here to try and be useful. You’re here because your family is too powerful for them to kill you outright so they were hoping boredom or a Massassi would do it for them.”

He glanced up at the sun, because at least then he had a reason for his wince and could hide the fact that her words hit harder than he’d like to admit. “Your visions _are_ annoying,” he muttered, because he didn’t want to address the rest of what she’d said. “The middle of eating a meal and then suddenly- bam, out of it with a vision, and then it’s my responsibility to keep the bugs off your food until you wake up again.” 

She made a sound of amusement. “Your consideration knows no bounds,” she said softly. 

“I should practice writing my holo to mother,” he said, to change the subject. “I can see it now- _dearest mother, I trust the Kaas social season is treating you well. Please give the others my regards. Oh, by the way, I know you were already struggling with the social faux pas of having a rebellious son, but I’ve joined another secretive political faction, and my closest confidante is an absent-minded Jedi outcast with erratic control of her talents. Kiss kiss, Maurevar._ ” 

“Tell her hello from me,” Gataii said, with a completely serious expression. 

____

“So,” Aric said, from where he was seated behind her; Ellaz had her eyes closed as she rested against his chest, lulled into a daze by the warmth of him and the contented rumble coming from somewhere within him. It wasn’t a purr, if you asked him- definitely not a purr. But she did love it when he purred. Not that he purred. “Wrath mentioned this morning that Navin was on her list.” 

Ellaz snorted, far too comfortable to move. Aric was running his fingers through her hair, having pulled the tie out so that he could comb his claws through it to deal with the tangles of the day. “Smart of her not to contact him,” she mumbled. 

“You don’t think she could’ve got him here if she put her mind to it?” he asked dubiously. 

“He _hates_ Imps, Aric-”

“Yeah, and I can’t exactly see you accepting an invitation to afternoon tea with a sith, yet here we are.”

She lifted her head. “Afternoon tea? Where?” 

“Figure of speech,” he said, leaning in to nuzzle at her forehead. “Also I’m so glad to know an offer of food will rouse you but my attentions won’t.”

She leaned in and pressed her nose against his. “You love me.”

“Sadly, I do. I wonder what’s wrong with me.”

She settled back down on his chest, eyes half closed as she took in the golden afternoon sunlight slanting in through the great stone doors. “I’m curious as to why she wants the Green Jedi, though,” she said. 

“We could ask her. She’s been surprisingly upfront about everything so far.”

“Aric Jorgan, if I didn’t know better I’d say you were grudgingly respectful towards a sith.”

“Nobody will believe you if you tell anyone,” he said with an exaggerated growl that made her shiver in delight. 

She smiled against his chest. And then frowned. “Also, what makes you think you know my brother better than me?”

____

Xolani looked up at the sound of someone clearing their throat, and found Thexan standing awkwardly just outside the shelter of the pavilion, the sky slowly deepening to pink behind him as the day drew to a close. He looked utterly miserable, like he would rather be in a thousand different places than where he stood, and despite her own lingering emotional anguish, she couldn’t help but feel for the poor boy. “Is something amiss, Thexan?” she asked carefully, trying to keep her tone neutral.

He swallowed very noticeably. “I was-” He gritted his teeth, apparently struggling. “I was hoping to speak with you, Master Xo.” 

She took pity on him, setting aside the datapad where she’d been working through some of the immense backlog of reports and requests that had accrued for the Sixth Line while she’d been locked away in her grief. It seemed a daunting task to sort through it all, and his interruption was more than welcome. “You are welcome to call me Xolani, Thexan,” she said, patting the bench beside her; he was so rigid with tension that she thought he was about to keel over backwards, so hopefully he’d take the offer to sit and she wouldn’t have a fainting princeling on her hands. “What can I do for you?”

He hesitated for a long moment, as if fighting the urge to flee, before awkwardly climbing the steps into the pavilion and sinking onto the very edge of the seat; he looked like he was readying himself in case he needed to lunge away at a moment’s notice. “I- needed to talk to you,” he said stiltedly.

“You’ve said as much,” she said gently. “Would you like to tell me what you’d like to talk about?”

Thexan took a deep breath, closing his eyes. “I- I need to thank you,” he said. “For, um... for yesterday.”

Xolani was too taken aback to even frown in confusion. “Yesterday?” she asked. “I mean, of course you’re welcome, but what was it yesterday that warranted my thanks?” 

“You protected me, when we first assumed Lord Da- Tahrin, I mean, meant me harm,” he said. 

“Of course,” she said, even more confused. “Why would I do otherwise?”

He hesitated. “I’m not sure why you did it in the first place,” he said awkwardly. 

“I’m not sure I understand your line of questioning- you were in danger, or I believed you were, so I took steps to ensure your safety. Is there something about that you need me to clarify?” 

Thexan looked, she realised, like a wounded puppy, cringing in the doorway and waiting for permission to come back into the house. “But _why?_ ” he asked, clearly confused. “What benefit is it to you to keep me alive? Ona’la, I can understand, and I know the Republic wants me for leverage, but I...” He looked stricken. “I know I have been unpleasant, and disrespectful. This can hardly be a task you enjoy, babysitting an enemy combatant. But you didn’t even hesitate, and I-”

“Thexan,” she said, cutting him off before he could babble himself into a panic attack; his breathing was already erratic, and his face was pale, and the healer in her was clamouring to take control of the situation. She reached out and put a hand on his shoulder, coaxing him to sit back against the cushions and relax, discreetly sending finer tendrils of a healing focus through their point of contact to encourage the muscles to destress. He slumped a little, looking defeated, but the panic attack did not escalate any further. “You were a prince- I am assuming that you had people who would have given their lives without hesitation in your defence, yes?”

He nodded.

“As a Jedi, I am bound by a code of conduct that teaches that we should never stand idly when another is in need of help or protection, no matter their rank or situation. I would have defended you regardless of your behaviour or your title.” 

He flinched slightly, turning ever so slightly away from her. “I see.”

“However,” she continued, keeping her hand on his shoulder so that he couldn’t slink away, “I would have defended you even without that code to guide my principles, because Parrot confessed to me that they were quite distressed at having hurt your leg- which you never mentioned for healing, by the way, or complained about- but you continued to treat them with respect and courtesy, and an individual who is kind to a droid is someone I am inclined to place my faith in.”

When he didn’t say anything, she pressed on. “Ona’la has fought tirelessly for you these last few months because she believes she sees something in your heart worth fighting for,” she said. “And I know our acquaintance has been short, but I am coming to believe that she is right.” 

“I don’t think there is,” he said quietly. “Anything in me worth saving, I mean. I just... I don’t want to be my father’s puppet anymore. I don’t want him to use me anymore. I’m tired of being hurt by him. That doesn’t make me extraordinary.”

“Standing up for your own needs is an extraordinary act of courage in itself,” Xolani said kindly. “Especially when we know it means leaving behind people we still love, who we can’t save.” 

She watched his eyes close, as if he was in pain. “I might be able to save them,” he whispered.

It was the same thing she told herself every time she went to visit Surro in the Residency Clinic. “You might,” she said. “You might.” 

____

“GSI had some teams on the ground on Ziost both immediately before and after the cataclysm,” Quinn said, handing over the datapad to Watcher One. “This is a compilation of both their publicly available data and their private research journals, although not the entirety of their private collection.” 

“I have contacted Hyland directly, but I suspect any further collaboration or access to their files will require a more substantial financial incentive,” Tahrin said dryly. 

“I have acquaintances who made the move to the private sector over the years,” the doctor standing beside Watcher One said. “I’m quite certain at least one of them is still with GSI. I’ll see if I can’t pull a few strings of my own.”

At her side, Malavai bristled. “If you are implying, sir, that Lord Dara’s efforts are at all lacking-”

“He was implying nothing of the sort,” Watcher One said irritably, her red eyes glowing in the gloomy light of the hall as the evening set in. “Doctor Lokin was simply pointing out that he has a different selection of resources at his disposal, and it seems pointless not to utilize them.”

“I must admit I’m unclear on your specialisation, doctor,” Tahrin said mildly. “When Imperial Intelligence was transferred to sith control, your file was intriguingly blacked out.”

Lokin smiled with the sort of absent fondness a grandfather bestowed on his family. It was an act Tahrin was no longer fooled by, after years of dealing with Vowrawn. “I’m a geneticist,” he said. “I found that my field work as a medic required a far more thorough understanding of the different species I encountered than a general medical degree provided.”

“Indeed,” Tahrin said, making a mental note not to leave him alone with the children. “I’m curious as to how a geneticist will be able to provide any sort of insight that the laboratories at GSI have not already.” 

“Doctor Lokin and I have been working together for a number of years in the field,” Watcher One said, “and our skills are far more diversified than any regular field research team.” 

“You were a biochemical engineer before you joined Intelligence, correct?”

“I’m _still_ a biochemical engineer,” she said, somewhat impatiently. “If that will be all, my Lord?”

Tahrin watched them go, considering carefully. “Malavai?”

“Yes, my Lord?”

“I don’t trust him.” 

“Shall I have him removed, my Lord?” 

She shook her head. “Just keep an eye on him, for now,” she said. 

____

Lana was lost in thought as she rounded the corner and came barrelling at speed straight into someone’s chest; normally she would have prided herself on her immaculate composure and her awareness of her surroundings, but the last few days- the last few _months_ , if she was being honest- were beginning to infringe on her sense of control. 

Her heart lurched up into her throat in alarm and she threw her hands up to cushion the impact, but she still felt her knee connect with a shin and a foot land on top of hers; her choked hiss of pain was mirrored by a muffled grunt, another set of hands coming up to grab at her shoulders so that they didn’t both go toppling over onto the floor in a tangle of bruised limbs. 

She looked up into a familiar pair of brown eyes. “Theron,” she gasped, willing her racing heart to settle again. She swallowed, carefully lowering her hands from where she’d forcibly planted them on his chest. “My apologies, I wasn’t paying attention. Are you alright?”

He looked just as bewildered as she felt, and she had to feel a pang of sympathy for him, briefly- she, at least, had been cordially invited to join this meeting, not frogmarched in at gunpoint after having been elaborately conned into attendance. Although admittedly, after several years acquaintance with him, she was coming to realise that that was fairly standard practice as far as Theron’s ops went. 

“No, uh... yeah, no, I’m fine,” he said, somehow managing an extraordinary number of syllables for so simple a statement. He awkwardly let go of her shoulders, stepping back as he did so and stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets; his elbows stuck out from his sides, and he tried to gesture with them, something like a shrug or... something. “Sorry, I think I got your foot there.” 

“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” she said, offering him a thin smile. Their relationship was a strange one, a friendship forced by circumstance while always held at an arm’s length from one another as they waited for the dust to settle and their loyalties to drag them in opposite directions. It was rather difficult to cultivate a genuine intimacy when you kept expecting the next day to bring a change to your circumstances, when you had to remember that there was every possibility they could be standing facing one another with their weapons drawn tomorrow, even if today they stood back to back in alliance. “It’s good to see you, Theron.”

She nodded to him as she went to move past him, but he put an arm up hurriedly. “Wait, Lana...” His mouth moved a couple of times as if he was fighting himself on saying something, and she raised an eyebrow. Finally he sighed. “I don’t even know where to start,” he admitted. 

“Start with what?”

“To tell you I was worried about you. To tell you what you did was kriffing stupid and I wish you’d asked me to go with you. To tell you I _missed_ you.” He hesitated. “But mostly just to tell you how sorry I am, and how grateful I am, and how I feel like shit for being relieved that Ona’la is safe while knowing what it cost you.” 

His honesty took her completely by surprise, and she gaped at him, her much lauded composure utterly absent. 

“I...” She paused when she felt her lip quiver, forcing herself to stop trembling. “It cost me nothing. Kallathe was not something I owned, that I might feel her absence to be a loss to my life.”

The look he gave her cut right through her. “Okay, so, you remember I’m not one of your little Imperial lackeys, right?” he said dubiously. “This whole eloquent bullshitting is still lying, and I think it’s not a stretch for me to say I know you better than that.” 

She blinked a few times, very pointedly clenching her jaw as she swallowed down the tears. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said politely. 

“Come on, Lana,” he said softly, almost pityingly. “I know I’m a bit clueless sometimes, but I’d be a pretty crap spy if I couldn’t read people. It’s okay to miss her. It doesn’t make you weak or make you a bad sith or something to have someone important in your life.”

Lana tried to laugh, but it came out a little more like a sob than she was comfortable with. “You never liked her,” she whispered. 

“Of course I didn’t, she scared the shit out of me, but how is that relevant? You’re my friend- I think- and you love her.” He paused again. “I think. I can’t tell what’s normal for you sith.” 

The sob that followed wasn’t trying to be anything else. “What’s _normal_ , Theron?” she said, a tear sliding onto her cheek. “If things were ever _normal_ , I doubt you and I would be friends, or be in this disastrous mess in the first place.”

He offered her a weak smile. “Yeah, well, disaster’s my style, isn’t it? Things ain’t right until several things are on fire and I’ve crashed at least two speeders, so really we’re ahead of the curve right now.”

She laughed, her face scrunching up against the tears. “You are far more optimistic than I,” she whispered.

“Hey.” He rather stiltedly stepped in close and wrapped his arms around her, tugging her back against the warmth of his chest; for a moment she resisted, going stiff in his hold as her adrenalin spiked at the unanticipated familiarity of the gesture. “We’ll get her back,” he murmured, holding her awkwardly. “It’s gonna be okay, yeah?”

She closed her eyes, hiding against the broad curve of his shoulder. _I’m glad one of us believes that_ , she wanted to say. “Thank you,” she said instead.

____

Ona’la stopped in the doorway to the stairwell. “Have you seen Thexan?” she asked, directing her question at whoever was able to answer.

Tahrin looked up from where she was perusing a datapad that Ellaz held. “I believe he said he needed some fresh air,” she said. “Perhaps check the library balcony?” 

“I didn’t see any lights on out there.”

“Well, then, I’d definitely check out there, because he’s probably being maudlin and sitting in the dark.”

Ona’la felt a pang of dismay at the thought of him sitting alone and miserable in the dark. “I’ll go and look,” she said. “Thank you.” 

She told herself that she had every right to worry about him after a day as draining as this one as she hurried out into the night to find him. 

She wasn’t overthinking things at all. 

Definitely not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clarify, Satele and Theron are still descendants of Revan and Bastila in this canon too, so yes, technically Tahrin and Theron are related. To his extreme horror.
> 
> Also because it wasn't explicitly stated, Ellaz has an older brother (she actually has six older brothers) who joined the Green Jedi as a young boy so that he could stay on Corellia with the rest of the family, and after the heavy losses during the Battle of Corellia, is the senior most surviving Green Jedi Master. To his disgust, they made him leader of the enclave.


	33. Chapter 33

The library was empty as she crossed through it, the great datacron humming softly as it rotated slowly on the magnetic repulsors keeping it elevated; the lights were muted as well, the better to conserve power, with the faint glow of the forcefields over the precious artefacts and trinkets casting odd coloured shadows over the stone walls. When things were not so frantic, she’d like to take the time to go through the archives, to see precisely how much Jedi history Tahrin had managed to preserve here. It warmed her, knowing that a part of her history and her heritage had not been lost as assumed, that the Jedi still had a story that lingered in the world, even if it currently sat in the hands of a woman who was decidedly not a Jedi. 

It was a small sliver of light in a galaxy slowly falling into darkness, and she was grateful for it.

As she’d told Tahrin, the balcony was dark, the light from the bridge and the large pavilions on the other side of the waterfall sending long fingers of light creeping towards them, but just at slightly the wrong angle to illuminate the gloom entirely. The air was humid and warm, despite the hour, and she was glad that she’d discarded her cloak some time ago. 

Her boots scuffed on the warm stone of the balcony as she slowly descended the steps, but it was not so dark that she could not see the darker silhouette of a person seated on the furthest bench, leaning over with their elbows resting on their knees. The figure didn’t move at all to acknowledge her arrival, and as her eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom she began to make out the finer details of the scene. 

Thexan was lost in thought, or so it seemed, an object in his hand holding his attention despite her interruption. He too had discarded his coat at some point, the sleeves of his tunic rolled up to his elbows and the top two buttons undone in an effort to combat the heat. He looked pensive, and exhausted, and she had a yearning in her to sit beside him and smooth the frown away from his face.

Instead she stood a careful few steps away, hands clasped before her. “Thexan?” she asked softly, watching him closely. “Are you alright?” 

For a long moment he didn’t answer, or even glance towards her, and then finally he sighed. “I don’t know,” he said, his attention still on the object in his hand. “Everything is... not what I was expecting.” 

She hesitated for a second before taking the risk and sinking down onto the bench beside him, being careful to leave an inch or two of space between them. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

He closed his fingers over the item in his hand, as if shielding it from her view. She wasn’t sure whether he was hiding it from her out of shame, or whether he was concealing something sinister from her, but she felt in her gut that it was more likely the former. “I don’t know,” he said again, reaching up to rub wearily at his eyes. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.” 

When he didn’t continue, Ona’la said “Your contributions today will make an incredible difference in what’s to come. You took a stand, and you did so publicly, and that’s an extraordinary thing to be doing so soon after leaving your father’s control.”

He made a sound like he might have been amused by her words, but he didn’t say anything. 

“I’m proud of you,” she said, pressing in a little harder.

“I know,” he said, repeating what he’d said in the meeting earlier that morning. “And that means a lot. It probably means more than it should, honestly, but...”

She ignored the way her heart fluttered in her chest at his confession that her regard meant a lot to him. “But?” she prompted gently. 

He sighed again and turned her hand over, holding the object between his fingers so that she could see it- it was a ring. More specifically, she could see it was the ring that had been recovered with him, when the two of them had been rescued from Zakuul. She suspected it was his ring of statehood, plain and gold and with a symbol stamped on the flat surface as if it might have been used to mark official documents. 

She could feel the misery bleeding off of him, and she put her hand over his knee as she shifted closer. “It’s alright to miss home,” she said quietly. “And what you’re doing, helping today, is only going to help them, in the long run. The sooner we put an end to this war, the sooner you’ll be able to see them again- and with your help, there’s far less chance that they’ll be killed or hurt.”

It was meant to be encouraging, because of course she didn’t want to lie to him and promise that nothing would happen to them at all, but he still closed his eyes as if the words pained him, his fingers closing tight over the ring again. 

“When we were children,” he said softly, “Arcann and I used to swap our clothing, to trick our nannies and our guards. The moment anyone left us alone, we were planning mischief.”

She didn’t say anything, even when he paused, because she could tell it was more important that she let him speak uninterrupted. Whatever it was he was building towards, he seemed skittish about it, as if even the hint of a wrong answer from her would have him closing himself off again, the walls back in place as if their progress over the last few weeks had never taken place. 

“I remember, there was one time, we switched places for almost a week and no one noticed,” he said, huffing out a breath that sounded somewhat like a laugh, but not quite. “We were seven, and we thought we were so clever, like it was the most cunning ruse anyone had ever managed in the history of the galaxy.”

The thought of tiny Thexan beaming and giggling in delight during the midst of such a caper made something warm and tight settle in her chest, like she wasn’t sure if the image broke her heart for the boy he had been and the pain that was in store for him, or if she was equally as delighted at the thought of such mischief and happiness. 

He had probably been an adorable child. 

“A lot of the time, we were treated as interchangeable, so we just made the best of it.” He twirled the ring slowly between his fingers, his eyes open again as he stared at it. “What was mine was his, and what was his was mine, and it was never an issue.” 

He let out a shaky breath. “This is his ring,” he said quietly, and there was a sort of... hopelessness in his tone, as if he was staring into an abyss at his feet and finally coming to terms with the fact that he could not walk across it. “I don’t know how I still know that, we changed rings so often that I should have lost track a decade ago, but... it’s his.”

“Does he still have yours?” she asked carefully, quietly.

Thexan laughed awkwardly. “I don’t know,” he said. “He wore it on the arm that- well. We saved it, on Korriban, but I don’t remember him wearing it on the journey home. He would have had to wear it on his right hand, and I don’t remember it.”

He sounded so miserable about it, clinging to hope even with the evidence stacked against him. “I’m sure it just wasn’t suitable for him while he was- recovering,” she said. What else could she call it? “I’m sure he still has it.” 

He didn’t answer immediately, and when he reached up to rub at his eyes, evidently trying to hide the fact that he was getting emotional. She was debating offering to hold him when he cleared his throat and sat up a little straighter. “It’s one thing to turn my back on my father, and what he stood for,” he said. “It’s another thing entirely to turn away from my brother.”

Her heart broke for him. “You have not abandoned him, Thexan,” she said.

“Haven’t I?” He made the same flat huffing noise as before, as if he was trying to sneer and maintain his bravado and couldn’t manage it. “I’ve given up information that has the potential to destroy him, and I’ve agreed to stand with people working to oppose him. In what world could I possibly twist that to mean I haven’t abandoned him?”

She reached up, almost absently, and brushed the backs of her fingers over his cheek; he didn’t flinch at the touch, but instead closed his eyes, and seemed almost to lean into it. “You are your own person, Thexan,” she said quietly. “Just as Arcann is- and you are allowed to seek a path that diverges from his, if it feels right in your heart. You are not your brother’s keeper.”

“There is a difference between choosing not to stand with his actions, and choosing to actively undermine them,” he said quietly. 

“Are you trying to convince me of that, Thexan, or are you trying to convince yourself?” 

His eyes were still closed, but she saw the way his jaw worked, as if the words were fighting him. “I don’t know,” he said finally. 

“I know you love him,” she said, running her fingers over his cheek and feeling her heart leap when he turned slightly towards the touch, as if he meant to nuzzle at her fingertips but thought better of it. “And I know you miss him. But if we can minimize the damage this war does, it will help your people, and it will help your brother, and it will hinder your father.” When he didn’t answer immediately, she continued. “You have already died for him, Thexan. What else can you ask of yourself?” 

“I don’t _know_ ,” he repeated, more frustrated this time. “That’s the point, Ona’la, I don’t know what I’m doing and I don’t know how to be this person and I just... I don’t _know_.” 

“Thexan.” She turned more towards him, her hand sliding down to cup his cheek and turn his face towards her. His eyes opened again, and the faint light from the bridge turned them a dark, stormy grey. “I’m going to tell you a little secret about what it means to be a person- _none_ of us know what we’re doing. Life is unpredictable, and messy, and _hard_ , and there is no guidebook to teach us every step we need to take.” 

He didn’t say anything, just stared at her, so she licked her lips and continued. 

“You know it’s hard for me, more than most people realise- you saw me break down in Coruscant, and again last night. I’m not some brashly overconfident warrior with perfect battlefield strategy, I’m not some braggart celebrity soaking up the adorations of the public. I’m _frightened_ , more often than not, despite what the Code insists I should or should not feel.”

“But you don’t ever hesitate,” he said, clearly conflicted. “I don’t understand.”

“I don’t let the fear dictate my actions,” she said. “It’s alright to be afraid, Thexan, because fear is natural. Fear is our body warning us of danger, and the wise individual should always take note of the warnings they receive, but not every risk evolves into physical threat. When we train ourselves to ignore the pain, ignore the fear, that is when we truly place ourselves at risk.”

“I’d say placing yourself in front of a sniper’s shot is the bigger risk, but that’s just me.”

A grin broke out over her face, delight bubbling up in her. “Did you just make a joke?” When the grin on his face appeared, mirroring the amusement she felt, she laughed. “You _did_ , you made a joke!”

“I was trying to tease you for having no sense of self preservation, actually.”

“Goddess above, you keep showing me glimpses of this sense of humour of yours, I’m going to start thinking you might actually enjoy spending time with me.”

His gaze immediately fell, and she felt him retreat slightly. “I- I do like spending time with you,” he said, awkwardly. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

 _Friends_. Yes, yes they were friends, she could handle friends. “Friends tease each other,” she said, “did you and Arcann ever tease one another?” 

“We teased our sister.”

 _Sister?_ “You haven’t mentioned her before.” 

He shifted, as if uncomfortable, and she let her hand fall away from his face; their knees were still resting against one another, and she let herself be content with that small physical intimacy. “She’s much younger than us,” he said, almost uneasily. “And she... she was always father’s favourite. She was very...”

When he trailed off, she prompted “She was very?”

Thexan sighed. “I don’t know what the right word is. She was more powerful than both of us, and knowing now what I do about Vitiate, I can’t help but... wonder, I suppose.” He turned the ring over in his hand again, his attention back on the worn gold band. “She adored us, and would trail around after us trying to be included in our games. I worry what it means for her, now that father is gone.”

“You think Arcann would turn against her?” 

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I worry if he’s strong enough to keep her level-headed, or whether the two of them will just wind one another up until everyone else suffers from their tempers.” 

They sat in silence for a time, Thexan apparently preoccupied by the ring in his hand, until eventually he sighed, rising to his feet. “I should get rid of this,” he said, walking up to the balcony railing as if he intended to drop it over. 

Ona’la lurched to her feet after him. “What? Why?”

He looked at her as if she’d suddenly turned green. “Why should I cling to the past, when I’m trying to work out how to walk forward into a different future?”

She closed her hand over his, so that he couldn’t abruptly lob the ring out over the dark jungle. “There is nothing wrong with acknowledging the past, and the path we walked to reach today,” she said. “If we ignore the past, we risk making the same mistakes again.”

“But if we remain obsessed with it, we can’t see the dangers that lie before us,” he countered. 

Ona’la smoothed her fingers over the back of his hand. “My headdress belonged to my mother,” she said quietly, “and despite the fact that people expect a more polished appearance from someone in my rank and position, I still wear it, as a way to remember and honour her and the few good memories I have of her. The same can be said of your ring- it represents the love you have for your brother, for your home, and the good memories that have kept you alive so far.” 

He looked agonized with indecision. “I can’t be that person anymore, Ona’la,” he said. “I can’t be the person who wore that ring.”

“Then don’t be him,” she said, taking the ring from him gently and taking his hand in hers. “Let it be a reminder of the happiness you shared, and let it be a warning for you of the roads you no longer wish to travel. Carry it with you as a source of pride, and a token of proof, that you can do better and be better.”

She slid it onto his middle finger for him, the ring settling comfortably; it was clearly fitted perfectly for him, and he flexed his fingers as he pulled away, automatically fussing with it in a way that implied it was a nervous habit. 

“You believe in me,” he murmured, so quietly that she had to lean in close to hear him. “You really believe I can be a better person.”

She went to laugh, but there was something vulnerable in his voice that stilled her. “Of course I do,” she said encouragingly. “Thexan, it has taken such extraordinary courage on your part to reach this point, I can’t even begin to imagine what it must take. To stand up for your brother in the way that you did, that was the most incredible act of selfless love, because no matter how your father used you and tried to turn you against one another, you still had the strength to do what you knew you needed to do.”

“I was selfish,” he whispered. “I didn’t want to live without him.”

“And here you are, living without him, and you seem to be doing quite well, by most standards.”

“It’s not the same. He’s still alive, at least.”

“And you are too, which means there’s a chance for you to reconcile in the future, and help him to walk away from the abuse your father has him trapped in.”

He laughed awkwardly. “You are so frustratingly determined to see the good in everything, aren’t you?” he said.

“And every _one_ ,” she said, smiling at him. He smiled in return, the expression hesitant and longing, and for several long heartbeats the moment held, the two of them standing close and comfortable in the warm night air.

She felt the moment it shifted, from gentle and hesitant to something more curious; she felt the warmth shiver through her blood at the way his gaze dropped to her mouth, and she was absolutely certain that- in that moment- he felt the same way that she did, and that he meant to kiss her. 

“Ona’la,” he murmured.

“Yes?” 

He blinked, as if he was coming out of a daze, and then a change came over him. He stared at her for a long moment, his expression almost agonized, and then he shook his head, stepping away from her. “I’m sorry, Ona’la, for worrying you, I won’t bother you-”

Something in her lurched about in a panic at the thought of him leaving, that he might think her to be frustrated with him. “No, Thexan, please,” she began, reaching forward and snaring him around the wrist. He froze at the touch, not attempting to pull away but certainly very obviously unsettled by it; he was staring at the balcony railing, deliberately not looking at her, and she could see the tension in his jaw. “Please, just tell me what’s wrong?” 

For several excruciating heartbeats, he didn’t move, and she thought he meant to ignore her until she gave up and released him; then his eyes closed, and he breathed out loudly through his nose- almost like a sigh- and turned back towards her.

The way that he looked at her then- longing and hope and hesitation all in one- took her breath away. 

“I...” He twisted his arm in her grip slightly, just enough so that he could break free of her hold and instead take her hand in his. His hand was warm, and so much larger than hers, and when he slid his fingers between hers she shivered; he quite noticeably swallowed, as if he was nervous. “I need to ask you something,” he said.

The balcony wasn’t large to begin with, but it suddenly seemed like there was far less space around them- or, more likely, that there was far less space between them. He was standing so close, her hand held gently in his, and when the palm of her other hand came to rest on his chest- _for balance_ , she told herself- his other hand came up to cover that too, sliding down to the curve of her wrist in a way that made her inhale softly. 

“What do you need to ask me, Thexan?” she whispered, her heart thumping so wildly against her ribs that it was a wonder he couldn’t hear it and hadn’t commented on the noise.

“Ona’la,” he began quietly, indecision in his eyes as he hesitated. 

When he failed to continue, she said “You know you can tell me anything, Thexan. I’m your friend, you can trust me.”

He flinched, ever so slightly, something in his eyes showing his withdrawal even as she felt him retreat mentally. “I do, I do trust you,” he said, carefully letting go of her hand. “And we _are_ friends. It’s... it’s nothing-”

“It’s not _nothing_ ,” she said, her fingers grabbing at a handful of his shirt and keeping him in place. “Thexan, please, just _tell_ me.”

His fingers closed around her hand, almost coaxing her to relax the grip she had on him, and when he huffed out a breath of frustration, she felt the warmth of it on her skin. “Ona’la.”

“Yes?”

“I...” He took a deep breath, clearly steeling himself. “I would very much like to kiss you right now,” he said, his eyes flicking to her mouth before coming back up to meet her gaze. “With your permission, of course.”

It was like the blood in her veins had very abruptly turned to fire instead, and she realised after a moment that she was trembling as she tried to nod. 

“Ona’la?”

“I would like that,” she whispered, taking a shaky breath of her own as she glanced at his mouth. “I would like very much for you to kiss me.”

____

Thexan felt his entire world spin to a halt.

He didn’t even know how he’d had the courage to say what he’d been thinking- like the way the darkness clung lovingly to the blue of her skin, the way the bright lights from the bridge were like little ruby flecked flames dancing in the purple depths of her eyes, oh for the love of Scyva he didn’t want to turn into some lovesick poet but she was without a doubt the most extraordinarily beautiful person he’d ever seen in his life. Except he hadn’t said any of that, because if he’d started blabbering he didn’t know if he’d be able to shut himself up, and Ona’la would run from him in embarrassment, or laugh at him, and-

“Thexan, shh.” She was so close to him, her forehead resting against his and his hand squeezed tightly in hers. “Please don’t panic, it’s alright. Breathe, for me?” 

He closed his eyes, laughing weakly, even as he cringed internally. “Sorry,” he rasped, “I got a little bit ahead of myself. Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” she whispered, “please don’t feel like you need to apologise. I understand.”

He fought back a sigh. “I’m such an idiot,” he said. 

“You’re nothing of the sort,” she said fiercely, immediately. “Do you want to sit again? Do you need me to fetch you a drink?”

The thought of her leaving made his heart lurch, and not in a good way. “Don’t go,” he blurted out, unable to stop himself from cringing this time. “Stars, I sound pathetic.”

“Shh.” She was rubbing his chest where her fingers rested, and he couldn’t be sure, but he thought she might have nuzzled her nose against his. “No, you’re not.” 

Oh, gods, she was so close, so close that he could taste the hint of her on the air, and it felt like she was touching him everywhere at once. His skin was too hot and too tight and he felt light-headed and they hadn’t done anything more than hold hands. “I really want to kiss you,” he said hoarsely, certain that she’d tell him that that was a terrible idea, that he needed to sit and calm down and be _reasonable_ and that maybe when he could be less hysterical she’d consider it-

“I _really_ want you to kiss me, Thexan,” she said.

“Really?”

“Yes, really!” She laughed softly. “What else do you need to be convinced?”

“Are you sure?” 

“Thexan, if you’ve changed your mind and are too nervous to say, we don’t have to do this, I promise you I won’t be upset-”

“ _No_ ,” he said, more urgently than he meant to. “I- I haven’t changed my mind.”

“You want to kiss me?” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“I want to kiss you.” 

“Then _please_ kiss me because I’m about a half second away from catching on fire.”

He saw her eyes flutter closed at the last moment as he leaned in closer, and for some reason that made his heart soar. He could feel the soft warmth of her breath on his mouth and his nose brushed gently against hers and she made the softest little noise imaginable and-

-and then he closed his eyes and kissed her. 

_Stars._

It was probably remarkably chaste by anyone else’s standards, her hands held gently in his, but he felt as if the light of the universe was thrumming through him, like she was life and joy and radiance in mortal form and with a single kiss she had revitalised him, burning away the shadows that had lingered in the dark recesses of his heart. She made another little noise against his mouth, and he shivered almost violently, the sound spearing straight through him and adding to the inferno of need and hunger that was growing in his belly. 

Her lips were soft and warm beneath his, and she tasted peculiar- the stories always said that kisses tasted like sweet fruits and sugary treats, but she tasted of the wine they’d served at dinner and a hint of the spices in the meal and something that was obviously uniquely _her_. He liked it a lot. 

She was breathing a little harder when they broke the kiss, and he had to say he felt about the same- light-headed and dizzy and almost drunk on the fire burning in him. They didn’t move apart, resting their foreheads against one another and brushing their noses absently, as if they didn’t know whether to keep going or not.

“I’ve, um...” Her voice was soft, and it sent a shiver through him. “I’ve never done that before.”

She was close enough that her lips ghosted across his as she spoke, like the promise of future kisses. “What?” he asked, leaning forward ever so slightly as he did, the word a kiss pressed softly against her mouth.

Ona’la shivered at the touch. “I’ve never done that,” she whispered, “kissed anyone, I mean.”

“Oh?” He kissed the side of her mouth, and the noise she let out was _very_ interesting. “Not a one of your fancy suitors ever-”

“ _No_.” She caught his mouth with hers, leaning up into him- he wasn’t that much taller than her, but the way he felt her lift her heels off the floor to gain a little extra height made him want to smile against her mouth. Now that they’d finally accomplished the first kiss, neither of them seemed to know how to stop themselves. “I’ve never wanted to, not until...”

You. She didn’t say it, but the word hung in the air. 

“Good,” he said, unable to stop himself from grinning like a giddy teenage boy; he wanted to _laugh_ , for Izax’s sake, he felt like he was burning up from the inside out and he wanted to kiss her until time itself ground to a halt, but more than that he wanted to laugh because he was just... gloriously, _deliriously_ happy. “I don’t have to catch up.”

She gasped softly as he ran his hand down the curve of her hip. “Thexan, you-”

“I’ve never wanted to,” he said, repeating her words back to her. 

“A prince had nothing to tempt him?”

Oh, there’d been plenty. It had been that weird dichotomy, the freedom that came from his rank and the adoring public who would do _anything_ for the son of the god-killer, contrasted with the stark disapproval of his father, the insidiously controlling nature that sought even to manage how they conducted themselves in private. 

Arcann had indulged himself, he knew that much. He’d never asked him about it, but he knew. 

He’d never wanted it for himself- until now. 

He kissed her, his hand sliding to the small of her back and pulling her flush against him; her hands, in return, slid around his neck, clinging tight to him as her fingers ran up into his hair.

Oh. He liked that. 

He let out a small noise, and he might have thought to be embarrassed by it if Ona’la hadn’t laughed breathlessly against his mouth, clinging to him all the harder as she returned the kiss. And then he was laughing too, and then they were both giggling and trying to kiss one another and laughing and panting trying to find a moment to breathe in between it all. 

It felt like a dream. A glorious, incredible dream. 

“I’ve been waiting for you to kiss me for days now,” she said, her fingers carding through his hair in a way that made him want to _purr_ , of _all_ things. “I was beginning to think I was imagining it all.”

“I was imagining a lot of things, trust me.”

“ _Oh_.” She shivered against him, and he kissed her again, capturing her top lip between his. When they broke apart again, she whispered “Perhaps we could share notes sometime.” 

He groaned, because while it was one thing to hear her say she’d been waiting for him to kiss her, it was quite another to know she’d spent the time indulging herself in fantasies about him. About _them_. Oh stars, he wanted to know what she’d dreamed of, even if he had no idea how to ask for that sort of thing. “I’d like that a lot,” he said hoarsely, trying not to think too hard about the fact that he’d just asked her to share her- her _sexual_ daydreams with him, Scyva save him.

His skin felt like it was on fire, too tight and too hot and he wanted to touch her _everywhere_ , even if the notion made him flush and mentally stumble like a gangly teenage boy called out on his claims of bravado. She kept kissing him, with a hunger and a neediness that delighted him, breathless little moans and whimpers pressed against his mouth as she kept her arms wrapped around him. 

The noises were his undoing. “Oh my god, Ona’la,” he rasped, and she tore her mouth away from his; for a moment he thought he’d done something wrong, until he saw the way her eyes were shining in the darkness. 

“Say my name again,” she whispered, her fingers still playing with the bared skin of his neck between his collar and his hairline. 

He was smiling like an idiot, he knew it. He didn’t care. “ _Ona’la_ ,” he said, and the way her lips parted on a sigh made every part of him burn. 

“ _Again_.”

His grin turned sly. “That seems a bit greedy of you, Battlemaster,” he said instead, his hands running over her back constantly, as if he physically could not stop them from moving. Her lekku, as well, seemed to suffer from the same affliction, and he kept playfully moving out of reach whenever the tapered ends began to curl around his fingers or his wrists.

She was panting softly, one hand sliding around between them so that her fingers could gently touch his lips; he kissed her fingertips and she shivered. “You seem to arouse all sorts of instincts in me, your Highness,” she said in response, and _stars_ if that wasn’t the most erotic thing anyone had ever said to him. Her nose brushed against his as she spoke, and then she replaced her fingers with her lips, covering his mouth with hers again as she kissed him. 

When they finally wound to a lazy halt a few minutes later, both breathing heavily and both with their hearts pounding wildly, they still seemed to find difficulty in pulling apart entirely. He kept his eyes closed as he rested against her, blissfully fuzzy and- despite the need roaring in him- utterly at peace. 

“Thexan,” she said quietly, and he shivered at the sound of his name on her lips. “I... I just want you to know, you don’t have to feel, um... _pressured_ , to do anything that you don’t want to do, or- I just, I know you struggle with physical contact sometimes and I don’t want to presume...”

He shifted his grip on her, so that he could hold her and bury his face in the curve of her neck and breathe her in. “I appreciate that,” he whispered, his stomach flipflopping nervously at the fact that she was acknowledging that she wanted more of this. More of _him_. “I hope you know that, um, I want the same for you? I mean, I want you to feel not... worried, or- that.” 

Neither of them seemed willing to say the word _sex_ , and he honestly couldn’t say for himself whether it was out of shyness or out of some more genuine trepidation. Which was absurd, because it wasn’t like _she’d_ ever had sex either, so she wasn’t going to hold him to some arbitrary standard that he had no hope of meeting- if they actually had sex any time in the future, which was absurd of him to be assuming, he shouldn’t be making assumptions, even if the thought of holding her so intimately was making his head spin and-

“I know,” she said, her hand cradling the back of his head, encouraging him to hide against her skin and forget the galaxy was at war beyond the safety of her arms. “I’m not worried.”

He breathed her in, the scent of her so familiar now. It wasn’t anything he could pin down, it wasn’t like he could sit and analyse it and say that she smelled of vanilla bean and Alderaanian orange blossoms or something equally bizarrely specific. She smelled like _her_ , and that was something he’d come to associate with warmth and with safety and with hope. It made him relax, because despite the truly unlikely circumstances, he knew he was safe with her, and that he didn’t need to be on his guard. 

They stood like that for some time, wound around one another in the darkness; Ona’la’s hands ran soothingly over his back, lazy and content, and in time he found himself doing the same to her. Her lekku were an added novelty, the ends curling around his fingers and his wrists if he lingered for too long, and he found himself making a little bit of a game of it, teasing them and dancing his fingers out of reach when they nearly had him. 

He knew he was grinning against her shoulder, but it surprised him when she started giggling too, and then she started to squirm whenever he toyed with the wriggling ends. “Do you like that?” he asked curiously. “Is it ticklish?”

She sounded a little breathless when she answered. “It’s, um, sort of ticklish,” she said, gasping a little. “It feels nice.” 

“Nice?”

“Someone told me it’s sort of like the neck and ears for humans, that sort of sensation.” She must have sensed his confusion, because she giggled, and then he felt her nuzzling against the side of his jaw.

“What are you-” She pressed an open mouthed kiss to his neck, and the words died in a garbled mess, his fingers digging into her back as he clung to her in surprise and sudden, ferocious desire. Her breath was hot on his skin, her tongue darting out as if she was tasting the sweat, and when her lips closed briefly over the lobe of his ear he made a quite frankly embarrassingly high-pitched moan. “ _Gods_ , Ona’la.”

He felt her chuckle, her mouth lingering over his ear. “I don’t have ears like you do, to be sure of it,” she whispered, the sound the most sultry thing he had ever heard in his life, “but I’m told that’s sort of similar.” 

“How are you still standing?” he asked hoarsely, his knees trembling. 

“You weren’t trying to leave me weak-kneed,” she said. He felt her smile against his skin. “I _was_.”

“Oh my god, you’re going to kill me.”

She was still laughing when he kissed her again, and she wrapped her arms fiercely around him, clinging to him as if she intended to just drape herself off of him entirely. He found he didn’t mind it, actually. “We can’t stay out here forever,” he said, trying to talk in between her insistent kisses; instead he found himself giggling along with her, each time she tried to kiss him whenever he tried to speak. “Ona’la, you’re being a menace.”

“I thought you might like this kind of menacing,” she said, punctuating each word with a kiss.

“Do I have to be the sensible one right now? That’s got disaster written all over it.”

She made a noise that could only be described as a purr, leaning in close to him. “Don't you like me being wicked?” 

He knew his eyes widened and he felt his breath catch in his chest, frozen as her words sank into his blood- and then she ruined the moment by bursting into a fit of giggles, hiding her face beneath his chin. 

“Goddess, I can't believe I just said that,” she said, gasping for air in between the laughter. “That was so embarrassing.”

“You were just joking,” he said, still reeling from the implications even if she’d meant it in jest. “It was just a joke. Yes?”

“Stars, yes!” He felt her settle in, resting against him, and he wrapped his arms around her instinctively. “I don’t even know the first thing about- I wouldn’t even know what to _do_ to be considered wicked. I’ve never been... I’ve never even done anything _close_ to this before.” 

“If you did more of that thing on my neck again, I would be happy to confirm that you are indeed wicked.” 

He felt her giggling before he heard it, and he couldn’t help but grin against the curve of her lekku; then she was laughing, and he was laughing too, and then they were clinging to each other and trying to muffle howls of laughter, lest the sounds draw attention from across the waterfall. 

“You’re incorrigible,” she said finally, once she had herself back under control. “Utterly incorrigible.”

“And here I thought you’d dedicated yourself to trying to reform me. That puts us in an awkward position.” 

She giggled, carefully unwinding herself from his grip but keeping a hold on his hand; it seemed sweet, actually, that despite everything she still wanted to hold his hand like it was a source of comfort for her. He wanted to preen a little at that thought. “You’re right, though,” she said, “we do need to go back inside, before Tahrin sends a search party out for us.”

“That doesn’t seem to strike me as her style, but alright.” He squeezed her hand, unable to help himself, and grinned at the shy smile she offered him in return. They climbed the steps back up into the library together, the cool light of the sconces washing over them as they stepped indoors again and casting a pleasant glow over her blue skin. He meant to tell her as much, turning towards her, but he didn’t get the chance.

“Thexan!” There was something panicked in her voice, something that made his stomach drop, and then he felt her hand around his wrist wrenching him backwards. They tumbled into an aisle between the archives together, out of sight of the main doors, and found themselves pressed up against the stone wall.

“What?” he asked, his heart thumping wildly in his chest. Was it another assassin? Was it Skytroopers- had they followed them to Yavin and had been systematically working their way through the rest of the hallways as they hunted him? He looked down at her, waiting for answers, and was a little surprised to see her fighting back a grin. “What?” he repeated, a little more suspicious now. 

“You’ve got, um...” She gestured to his mouth, and when he only raised his eyebrows at her, she blushed, giggling. “You’ve got my lipstick on you,” she whispered. 

Oh. 

He felt his own cheeks heating as he reached up and wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand- sure enough, there was a faint smear of purple of his skin when he looked down. 

“Do you want me to...?” Ona’la pulled her sleeve up over her hand and gestured towards him. He groaned, and nodded. When she stepped in close to him, his hands came up to rest on her hips almost instinctively. He thought he felt her shiver, but he wasn’t sure. 

“Can you just, um...” She was blushing adorably, and he could see her lekku moving too; he’d have to pay more attention to them, since they seemed to be a fairly convenient tell for her moods. She held the fabric in front of his mouth. “Lick that? Or... something.”

“What?”

“Well I’m guessing you wouldn’t appreciate me spitting on your face, so just dampen that or something so I can get all the makeup off.”

He glanced down dubiously at the sleeve held up to his lips and then back at her; he opened his mouth as if to allow her to dab it against his tongue, and she relaxed a little. 

“Thank you, Thexan, I’m sorry, I didn’t want you to be-”

The moment her fingers darted past his lips he closed tight around them, her little squeak of surprise sending another fizzle of heat through him. “Thexan,” she hissed, trying to tug gently free. “Hah hah, very funny.”

He sucked softly on the two fingers in his mouth, his tongue pressing up against the fabric of the sleeve, and the hint of irritation in her eyes abruptly vanished. 

“Thexan,” she whispered again, and when he sucked a little harder she whimpered. “Someone might find us.”

He let her go, kissing the imprint of her fingertips on the fabric as she pulled them from his mouth. “Are you ashamed?”

“Of course not,” she said, wiping the sleeve briskly over his lips- he tried not to grimace and pull away. “I just think it’s the sort of thing that requires a little more tact than- than being caught half undressed in your sister’s library, goddess preserve.”

He grinned. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m fully dressed, so if you’re implying something-”

“Do _not_ take off your clothing, by all the red sands of Ryloth, do _not_.”

“Are you blushing?”

“Of course I am!” she spluttered. “I’ve been blushing for about the last half hour, at least!”

His grin widened, but he let her finish her inspection of his mouth without teasing her again; there was a remarkable sparkle in her eyes, dancing in the low light of the library sconces, and he was suddenly gripped by the lurching fear that he might lose this. This easy companionship, this comforting teasing. He must have tensed, because she glanced up at him, her eyes wide with concern.

“Thexan?” She paused in her ministrations. “Did I hurt you?”

“We’re... we’re still friends, aren’t we Ona’la?” he asked, horrified to hear his voice shaking. “I mean, I don’t understand how this sort of thing works, but we don’t... does this change things?”

There was something heartbreaking in her expression, and for a moment he felt a surge of panic, convinced that she was about to tell him that yes, this changed everything. But then she pulled her sleeve back to expose her hand again, and she cupped his cheek so reverentially that he shuddered, closing his eyes so that the emotion in her own didn’t overwhelm him. 

“We are still friends, Thexan,” she said softly, her thumb brushing over his cheek. “I would not have- I would not have wanted to kiss you, if we weren’t friends first. That was important to me.”

When he didn’t answer, her felt her rise up on her toes again, her mouth pressing gently to his a moment later; he hesitated for a heartbeat, before letting his hands slide around her waist and returning the kiss. 

_He_ was kissing _Ona’la_. He, a prince of Zakuul, was kissing the Battlemaster of the Jedi Order. Never in a million lifetimes did he think this was where his life had been headed, to cheat death in the most mysterious and sinister circumstances, only to end up in the arms of this one woman. 

“I’m glad we’re friends,” he said hoarsely, the words whispered breathlessly against her mouth.

He felt her smile, and it warmed every part of him. “I’m glad too,” she whispered.


	34. Chapter 34

Ysaine put a hand up to her neck, rolling her head to the side as she tried to stretch out the aching muscles. “I get the impression that people think I’ve got a lot more influence than I do,” she said, wincing as something twinged in her shoulder. 

A pair of smaller, calloused hands gently pushed hers out of the way and she groaned happily when they set to massaging, thumbs digging in deep to the abused muscles. “Mm, I dunno,” Torian said, pressing a chaste kiss to the top of her shoulder as he rubbed at her neck and back. “If it were up to me, I’d say people don’t think highly enough of you.”

She smirked, eyes drifting closed as she leaned back into his ministrations. “Maybe it’s just me, but I seem to think you’re mighty biased on the subject, husband of mine.”

He pressed another kiss to her shoulder, and another. “It’s not biased if it’s the truth,” he said, and she had no idea how he always managed to make it sound so innocent when he talked like that, like he weren’t about to try and pull the moves on her at all. “What, a man can’t fight to see that his lady gets the recognition she deserves?” 

Something clanged in the stairwell down to the lower floor of The Bug, as if someone had halfheartedly attempted to throw something. “If you guys are gonna have sex again, can you at least shut the door this time?” Mako’s voice drifted up from the crew quarters, and Torian snorted against Ysaine’s shoulder while she bit her lip and grinned. “Some of us are trying to sleep you know.”

“Don’t mind her!” Rennow’s voice came with the sound of a scuffle, as if Mako had thrown a pillow at him from across the hallway. “You just do whatever makes you comfortable.”

Ysaine tilted her head back, grinning. “Stop listening to us having sex, Rennow.”

“Now, see, I’m not at fault if I just happen to overhear it because you didn’t take precautions, it’s not like I’m eavesdro- ow!”

The sound of stomping footsteps a moment later made it clear that Mako had climbed out of bed and crossed the hall herself to slap Gault over the back of the head. “Goodnight, everyone!” she called pointedly. “I hope everyone sleeps _soundly_ and _quietly_.”

Stretching out with her foot, Ysaine strained until her toe made contact with the door pad, the hiss of the hydraulics sounding a moment later as the door clanged shut. “I dunno, it just feels like... most of this stuff I sort of just fumbled into, y’know? I ain’t no clan chieftain or anything, I ain’t a war general.”

“Mm, but you have the loyalty of Clan Cadera, Clan Vizla, and Clan Lok,” Torian said, pressing his thumbs in hard to the base of her neck until she groaned happily. “Two very powerful clans, and the clan of the Mandalore himself. And you’ve got the disgraced ex-Chancellor of the Republic on a leash. You don’t give yourself enough credit, riduur.”

She huffed out a laugh. “You know I hated every minute of working for that ass Tormen,” she said, leaning back against his thighs. “I ain’t cut out for no diplomatic shit.”

“Way I see it is, you’re just downright charming. Ain’t no one gonna turn you down.”

“Torian Cadera, I do believe you are trying to get in my good graces.”

“Can’t blame a man for trying.”

Ysaine sighed, rolling her head to the side so that he could give up the pretense of the massage and just kiss absently at her neck. “I wish Shae’d been here,” she said quietly. “She’s better at this shit than me.”

“She would have set fire to at least four people today, riduur.”

“Hey,” she tsked, tugging gently on his hair. “Don’t you go badmouthing my wife, you hear?”

“The lady knows I respect her, but she does got a way with fire, you know? And that way happens to be using it on everything and everyone and asking questions after she’s done.”

She tugged on his hair again, and he responded by nipping gently at the junction of her neck and her shoulder. “I just wish she was here, you know?” she said. “I spent so long keeping my head out of anything to do with the war, even when it flared up again. Now everyone’s looking at me like I got something useful to add to the conversation.”

Torian kissed at the spot where he’d bitten, nuzzling at her neck. “If memory serves, love, you stopped talking to Shae for damn near a decade because you weren’t so comfortable with her knowing the ins and outs of war so intimately.”

Ysaine reclined back against him, relishing the warmth of him at her back, and humming happily when his hands slid over her hips and came to rest warm and calloused on her belly. “Yeah, I know, I’m a damn hypocrite and a sham of a Mandalorian-”

“Hey, I didn’t say that,” Torian said, putting his fingers under her chin and turning her face up so she could look up at him. “I damn well wouldn’t have fallen in love with you if you weren’t the woman you were, and your principles and your conviction to your morals won me over more than any punch you ever threw.”

She grinned up at him. “And here I was thinking it was my devilish charm and stunning good looks that won you over.”

“I ain’t blind. It sure ain’t a bad thing to find such a fine woman all wrapped up in pretty package.”

Ysaine snorted. “Ain’t no one called me pretty in at least thirty years.”

Torian nuzzled at her cheek, and then teased at the corner of her mouth. “See, then you go on and remind me what a wee bub I am-”

“I know, you’re so tiny and so small,” she teased, tugging him around so that he could straddle her hips while she reclined back on the bed. “I oughta be keeping you wrapped up in dramassian silk or something, keep you safe from the big bad world out there.”

His eyes were hooded and burning with hunger as he matched her grin with his own; she could feel his cock through his breeches, hard and taunting as it rubbed against hers through her pants. “I ain’t so fragile,” he drawled, the words sending a shiver through her. “Reckon I’ve got a good sort of resilience when it comes to being roughed up.”

“Got good stamina, have you?” she asked, breathless and husky, grinding her hips up against his. 

“I think that maybe I do, riduur,” he said, leaning down to kiss her.

____

Despite the late hour, it wasn’t entirely easy to get back to their quarters without interruption- as Tahrin had said the day before, the mesa was packed to capacity with the extra guests, and that was before the new arrivals today had brought with it. There were people still lounging about in the main hall, some dozing on the couches as if they intended to spend the night there, and others gathered about in tense conversation; she might have suspected they were still debating issues from the war council that morning, had not the blonde starship captain introduced to her as Captain Voresh chosen that moment to stand up with her hands thrown in the air victoriously. 

She had no shirt on. 

“Hah! That’s twenty-three, you asshole, point to me! Pay up!”

Seated opposite her was the chiss operative that had sneered at Thexan’s declaration of loyalty earlier that morning, and he was decidedly more naked than Captain Voresh. As if to prove the point, he sneered up at her. “It’s clearly eighteen,” he said as Ona’la and Thexan crept towards the staircase, hoping not to interrupt. 

“Like shit it is boyo, give me your pants.”

“This is clearly a four-”

“That is clearly a nine, you sore loser, give me your imp-damned pants now because I need them for my trophy case.”

Beside her, the redhead who had so stalwartly sought to intervene whenever Captain Voresh had gotten too enthusiastic earlier that morning mumbled in her sleep, curled up on the couch with a pile of clothing strewn on top of her. Next to the chiss, a rattataki woman was drinking straight from a rather large bottle. “C’mon baby, be a gentleman, take your pants off for the lady,” she drawled, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. 

“See, my confusion comes from the fact that the art on these cards is very misleading, that definitely looks like the cheunh numeric symbol for four.”

“Uh-huh. Fascinating. Give me your pants.”

None of them looked their way as they made their way into the stairwell and up to the higher tiers of the mesa. Tahrin and Major Hervoz were nowhere to be seen, thankfully either having concluded their discussion or moved somewhere more appropriate for a conversation about the logistical necessity for an outpost other than the Yavin Coalition camp. 

In fact, when they made it to the upper balcony, Ona’la was beginning to think that they might go about their evening without being acknowledged at all, which was absolutely perfect by her reckoning. It wasn’t that she was ashamed of the fact that she’d kissed Thexan- multiple times- or that they’d talked about the possibility of indulging themselves in activities far more physical, or that she was holding his hand as they crept back to bed together. She meant it, when she’d told him she was proud of him, and she was actually feeling incredibly smug, if she had to be honest about what she was feeling. 

But just because she wasn’t ashamed of what she felt for Thexan didn’t mean she was exactly looking to stop and stammer out an explanation for what she was doing, or what she was feeling. Because if she was entirely honest with herself, she wasn’t sure _what_ she was doing, other than that she wanted to do it with everything in her. Right now she didn’t really want to think. 

That, of course, meant that she couldn’t have perfect luck and someone was definitely going to stop them before they made their way to bed. And as they stepped out from the shadows of the main structure and onto the bridge, she felt her heart sink as she saw the silhouette of two figures standing by the waterfall, staring out over the jungle as the darkness of the night settled around them. 

Lana and Theron. 

She slowed with hesitation, and at her back she felt Thexan squeeze her hand as if in support, and she glanced at him briefly; there was no judgement in his expression, no frustration with her for hesitating, and she appreciated that. She squeezed his hand in return, brushing her thumb over his while the rest of their fingers were twined together. 

There was no way to cross the bridge without drawing their attention, and she couldn’t see either of them just allowing them to pass without stopping them. Theron, particularly, had seemed desperate to find a moment alone with her all day- presumably to apologise, she had guessed, but she still didn’t know whether she was willing to listen to him. She wasn’t sure what hurt more- his obvious lack of trust for her own ability to make decisions, or the fact that he’d humiliated her so thoroughly in front of a gathered assembly of some of the most powerful individuals in the galaxy. 

Or the fact that he hadn’t even felt like he could talk to her, and had instead chosen to recruit people to spy on her. Okay, yes, that one hurt a great deal. 

On the other side of the bridge she could see the shadowy outline of the ziggurat they’d spent last night in; there was nothing else for it. Steeling herself, she almost stumbled when she felt Thexan press in close behind her for a moment, gasping softly when she felt his lips whisper over her cheek briefly. When she glanced at him again, he said nothing, but in the faint light from the lanterns she could see the earnestness in his eyes. Whether he was encouraging her to ignore them, or imploring her to stand tall in the face of whatever conversation occurred, she couldn’t say.

But she appreciated it more than she could say. 

Taking a deep breath, she continued across the bridge. 

Lana and Theron both looked up at the sound of their footsteps, their quiet conversation drawing to a halt at their approach. Lana looked about as bleak and severe as she had the previous day, exhausted in a way that seemed to transcend the physical and cut straight down to her soul; Theron, for all that he wasn’t exactly supposed to be of concern to her at the moment, looked haggard in a way that tugged at her heart. She was curious as to what they could have been discussing, and why they might have felt the need to stop her from overhearing it, but not so curious that she wanted to engage with them unnecessarily. 

Theron pushed off of the wall, a hand going up nervously to run through his hair- a gesture she recognised even as she sighed internally. He wasn’t going to let her walk past without saying something; he was psyching himself up to speak. 

“Ona’la,” he began, just as anticipated, one hand half-heartedly reaching out to her as she drew near. 

She tensed, despite her best efforts not to. “I’m tired, Theron, so whatever you have to say can wait until morning-”

“Can I at least get a chance to apologise? Kriff, I can’t fix things if you won’t even let me talk to you.”

When she stopped, Thexan stopped a little closer to her than was strictly necessary, but she didn’t ask him to move; the heat and weight of him at her back was something comforting, in the face of something that was decidedly not comforting. “What sort of _talking_ were you hoping for, Theron? Given that, if I apparently do not send my schedule to you ahead of time for your explicit approval, you find the need to involve half the Republic in hunting me down to explain myself!”

Lana made a noise that sounded very much like she was trying to cover a laugh. “You’re off to a flying start, Agent Shan,” she said pleasantly. “I can’t see why you’d need me here at all.”

“ _Moral_ support, Lana, you’re supposed to be here for _moral_ support, not laughing at me.” Theron turned back to Ona’la with an agonised expression on his face. “Look, okay, maybe I didn’t think things through so well, with this whole thing, but we both know now that I would have ended up here no matter what, if the Wrath wanted it that way-”

“You planted a tracking device on her weeks before the Wrath made contact,” Thexan growled, his voice quiet but no less threatening. “I’d say you had plenty of time to think things through and just chose not to.”

“Thexan,” Ona’la said wearily, even as her stomach fluttered at his defence of her.

“Hey, yeah, so we haven’t been properly introduced yet,” Theron said, holding his hand out as if to shake Thexan’s, but Thexan made no move to match him. Wiggling his fingers awkwardly as if to prompt him into movement, Theron continued. “Normally I’m lucky enough to have introductions out of the way before people start scolding me, but you know, whatever.”

Behind her, she felt Thexan take a breath, and she knew immediately what was coming. “Thexan, don’t,” she said.

“You are Theron Shan, ex SIS agent and now independent contractor for an intelligence organization operating outside of Republic governmental controls. Your parents are Grand Master Satele Shan of the Jedi Order and Supreme Commander Jace Malcolm of Republic High Command. You were born thirteen years before the Treaty of Coruscant and were raised by Master Zho in the manner of all Jedi younglings until it became apparent that your connection to the Force was tentative at best.” Thexan paused, but she could tell it was for dramatic effect rather than any need to catch his breath. “Shall I go on?” he asked caustically into the silence.

For a moment, nobody said anything, and Ona’la closed her eyes as she debated whether to scold Thexan or apologise to Theron or just walk away and hope that they dealt with it themselves. 

Then Theron did what she should have expected from him all along- he laughed awkwardly. “Wow, you really do sound like the Wrath when you do that,” he said, retracting the hand and the offer of greeting that came with it. “That whole, I dunno, reciting a datafile thing you do instead of talking like a normal person. So you guys really are siblings, or something.” 

“Which would make the two of you related in a roundabout manner, would it not, Theron?” Lana said, from where she was still leaning against the wall. For whatever reason, she seemed to be taking great delight in doing precisely the opposite of helping him as he fumbled his way through this mess. “You and Lord Dara are both descended from the Revan, and Lord Dara has informed us that she and His Highness are siblings, so this means you are family, yes?”

“Why do you hurt me like this, Lana?” Theron said.

“Regardless,” Ona’la said loudly, cutting through the conversation, “it’s late, and it’s been a rather overwhelming day, and this is really not a discussion I want to have right now.”

“Can I at least get the chance to say I’m sorry?” Theron asked plaintively. 

She closed her eyes. “No one is stopping you from apologising, Theron, but just because you’ve said sorry does not mean you haven’t hurt me.”

She heard him huff out a breath, as if he was disappointed. In himself, maybe? “I know, I know I hurt you, that’s why I want to fix it-”

“Right now, it stings a little too much for me to want to talk,” she said, annoyed at the fact that she could feel tears welling up behind her closed eyelids. It had been such a remarkable evening so far, she wouldn’t let this ruin it. “If you want to make things better, then perhaps respect my need for space right now.” 

“I just...” He tapered off, and she thought he intended to leave it at that, but when she opened her eyes again he was staring at her like a wounded pup. 

She felt her resolve waver at such a look. 

“I just hate knowing you’re hurting because of me,” he finished.

For some reason, that upset her more than it probably should have. “Well, I’m so sorry for inconveniencing you like that,” she said, blinking away the tears in her eyes and drawing herself up again. “Next time I’ll be sure to take your feelings into consideration when you humiliate me.”

“Ona’la-”

“Theron,” Lana said sharply, not looking at any of them, her jaw very obviously tense. “Just let it go.” 

Theron looked between Lana and Ona’la, and his shoulders slumped; he didn’t say anything, but the message was clear. After a moment’s hesitation, Ona’la continued her walk across the bridge, and Thexan followed silently behind her. She could feel Theron’s eyes burning into her back the entire time she walked away from him, miserable and frustrated and as stubborn as ever.

She wondered what he and Lana had been talking about prior to her interruption- she wondered whether Lana had counselled him to take his time, and whether he’d barged on ahead anyway, determined to fix things in that oafish way of his. She wondered whether Lana had agreed with him, that her hurt over his actions was unreasonable given that this was a time of war and they didn’t want to risk losing her again. 

She wondered if any of them really truly trusted her. 

The door to their quarters slid closed behind them, and Ona’la felt herself deflate a little. “I’m sorry you had to see that, Thexan,” she said quietly, her mood well and truly sunk. 

He hadn’t let go of her hand, and in fact turned towards her, tugging gently until she came to rest in his arms, her face resting against his shoulder. “Why are you sorry?” he asked, genuine confusion in his voice. 

“Well, I mean... it was messy, and the whole thing was so unnecessary, and it put you in danger too, and I just-” She bit her lip. “He doesn’t trust me. That’s what hurts the most.”

He ran his hands slowly up and down her back, the pressure just shy of ticklish, and she shivered when his lips brushed over her brow. “You love him?” he asked quietly, his tone almost reluctant, and she tried not to cringe at what was surely a jealous outburst about to begin.

“Yes,” she whispered, the words almost hidden against his throat where she’d burrowed, “but I mean, not like, not like- that, um-”

“Like what? Like a brother?”

Oh. That wasn’t what she’d expected at all. “Well... yes,” she said lamely. “He’s like a brother to me.”

“You were worried I was asking because I was jealous?” 

She nudged herself upright, just enough that she could make eye contact with him; there was no censure in his gaze, only curiosity, and it made something in her unwind from where it had been coiled protectively around her heart. “A little,” she said. 

He was toying with the end of her lek, rolling his finger as the tapered tip curled around it like some lazy little dance. “Family can hurt us,” he said, offering her a small smile. “I’d think you might have realised I’m well aware of that fact by now.”

The relief was so immense that she nearly shuddered with it, and her hands seemed to slide up to his shoulders almost without her command. “I mean- he’s not real family, he’s not actually my brother-”

“The fact that he is a human and you are a twi’lek had not escaped my notice, surprisingly.”

She swallowed, licking her lips- still aching from their kisses on the balcony- and his gaze dropped straight to her mouth. “I just mean, you could have thought differently about us,” she whispered, and she wasn’t sure what she was doing, why she was trying to convince him that it was _okay_ to be jealous. 

His lips brushed ever so faintly over hers, a whisper of a kiss, just enough to make her whimper needily. “You told me a half hour ago that you had never kissed another, because you had never had the interest,” he murmured. “Are you trying to convince me that you lied about that?”

“Never,” she whispered fiercely, her nose brushing against his.

“That’s what I thought,” he said, kissing her briefly before tearing himself away. “Just because I’m angry that he hurt you doesn’t mean I’m jealous that his opinion means something to you. It doesn’t mean I don’t _trust_ you.”

“If I say sorry right now, am I going to be in trouble, because you’ve taken to saying that if I say sorry too much-” He cut her off with a kiss, far more crushing than the previous one, and she closed her eyes and melted into him. Her arms went tight around his neck, and his went around her waist, pressing her against him so tight she could barely breathe. 

Well. Mood restored, then.

There was heat building in her, curling out from the fire in her belly until it sizzled along every limb and inch of skin; there was something a little more desperate in their kisses now, safely out of sight as they were, and she was panting when she managed to get an inch of space from his mouth. 

“We should go to bed,” she said hoarsely, and Thexan nodded adamantly in response.

“We _should_.” 

Then they were kissing again, and Ona’la couldn’t quite remember what she was trying to suggest. When his lips traced away from her mouth briefly, kissing along the line of her jaw towards the curve of her ear cone, it was rather difficult to focus on anything else. “I mean, we should get into the bed for sleep,” she rasped, letting out a whimper at the heat of his mouth and the faint sting of his teeth on her skin. “So we can sleep.”

“Do you want to sleep?”

“ _Goddess, no_.”

He laughed, the sound breathless and amused. “Thank the gods,” he said, voice shaking. Through the layers of their clothing, she could feel the hard length of him pressed against her thigh and she couldn’t help the little moan she let out when he kissed her again; just because she was inexperienced in this sort of activity didn’t mean that she was some kind of naive ingenue, and the very physical proof of his interest in her made the fire in her spark into an inferno. 

“ _Thexan_ ,” she moaned, the sound shifting into a giggly shriek when one of his hands slid over the curve of her hip and down to squeeze at her arse. 

He was grinning shyly when he pulled away from nuzzling at her neck. “Too much?” he asked. 

She wasn’t sure if she rocked her hips against him, or if the pressure of his hand on her backside pulled her forward, but she rather enjoyed the dazed look in his eyes and the way his breath hitched for a moment when she did it. “No, no, it’s not too much,” she said, pressing a series of quick kisses along his cheek to his mouth. “Are you...?”

“I’m okay,” he said, laughing breathlessly. He’d done that on the balcony too, laughed and giggled in between their kisses, as if he was so overwhelmed with happiness that it had bubbled out of him. “I’m okay, really.”

“We don’t have to do anything, you know,” she said, fighting to keep her hands still for just one moment so she could try to be serious. “I know it’s all very- um, _fast_ , so far, so I just want you to know that we don’t have to have sex.”

There. She’d said it. She’d put the actual word out there, so that there could be no more dancing around the subject. So what if it just made the juncture of her thighs ache more fiercely than she could ever remember, fuelled by images of naked limbs entwined together in a mess of sweat and pleasure? 

Oh, goddess preserve. 

“I know,” he said, nuzzling at her as if he was drunk on the taste of her kisses. “I know that. We don’t have to.”

“That’s right. We can just go to bed together and there’s no pressure at all.”

He kissed her until her head spun. “There’s no pressure, Ona’la,” he said, her name a purr on his tongue that made her want to melt. “Are you feeling pressured?”

“I- no.” Oh, _goddess_ , what _was_ she feeling? Hot and aroused and hunger for things that she knew in theory but had no idea about in practice and oh stars. “I don’t know?”

Thexan stopped immediately, one hand coming up to touch her cheek while the other stayed flat against the small of her back. “Ona’la?” His eyes crinkled with concern, his lips red and swollen from their kisses and goddess above but he looked _extraordinary_.

“You’re so beautiful,” she whispered, before she could help herself. 

That clearly wasn’t the answer he’d been expecting from her, and he looked bashful despite the amusement in his eyes. “I- thank you?” he said. “Are you alright?”

“I just don’t want you to do something you’ll regret,” she blurted out. “I don’t- I don’t want this to be- I don’t... I can’t even find the words I want, damn it all-”

“Shh,” he soothed, smoothing his thumb over her cheek and leaning forward to kiss her brow; she could still see his pulse thrumming wildly in his throat, and she could still feel his length against her belly, so she knew his interest hadn’t died with her hesitation. “Take all the time you need.”

Ona’la swallowed down the worst of the nerves, her hands running over his shoulders to lay flat against his chest. “I realise that I hold quite a lot of power over you,” she finally said, making herself meet his gaze so that she couldn’t play coy or ignorant to escape any repercussions. “You’ve essentially been my prisoner, despite how much I’ve tried to give you your freedom, and see to your comfort, and I don’t want you to feel like this is something that I... _need_ , and that not doing so puts your safety at risk.”

For a long moment he didn’t say anything, and she steeled herself for the moment of rejection she was sure was coming. What he said instead took her by surprise. 

“Do you remember the other night on the _Doombringer_ ,” he asked quietly, his thumb brushing over her bottom lip, as if tracing it and committing it to memory, “when we fell asleep together in my quarters?”

She bit her lip, the gentle thrill of it bubbling through her. “Of course,” she whispered. 

His hips moved against hers, and she gasped softly, enough for a spark of heat to appear in his eyes again. “When you left, I was so distracted by you- my bed was still warm from your body heat, and I could smell you everywhere, and so when you left, I locked myself in the shower cubicle and touched myself while I thought of you.” 

She moaned. “ _Oh_.”

“So if you’re worried that I’m doing this because I think it will benefit me in some nebulous way, the only benefit I’m interested in at the moment is whether you say my name the way I imagined it or not when-”

She cut him off with a bruising kiss, clinging to him so tightly that she was sure her fingers were going to leave marks on his pale skin. “Take me to the bed and we’ll find out,” she whispered hoarsely. 

They stumbled towards the bed, and Ona’la squeaked when the mattress hit the back of her knees; the sound turned to laughter as they giggled and fumbled to find a way to climb onto the top of the sheets together without it turning into an awkward mess of elbows and knees. Ona’la groped backwards for balance, trying to slide backwards so that Thexan had room to follow her, but instead he paused at the edge of the bed. Her eyes widened as he reached for the hem of his shirt, tugging it up over his head and casting it aside in one graceful movement. 

He’d held her last night without a shirt on, and the very first time she’d seen him on the _Illustrious_ he’d been stripped bare to the waist as well, the better for them to treat his lingering infections in his wound. But even compared to last night this was _different_ , the sight of his broad shoulders and the dark sprinkling of hair over his chest an offering and a temptation in one; she felt the wet heat between her legs throb in response, her chest tight as she leaned back on her elbows and took him in. 

He was breathing heavily, his eyes glazed with hunger as he gestured jerkily to himself. “Too much?” he asked, his voice hoarse. 

She shook her head. “Not enough,” she said, beckoning him forward. The way he grinned made her whimper needily, and as he crawled onto the bed after her she sank back, running her hands over his chest and marvelling at the way his muscles flexed beneath her palms. When he pressed one of his thighs between her legs she moaned, rolling her hips up at him instinctively and delighting in the way he groaned in response. 

And then his weight was on her fully, heavy enough that it stole her breath away but somehow perfect regardless. His skin was hot to the touch, so much so that she was convinced she might have burn marks on her fingers where she clung to his back, and his mouth as it trailed up to hers left a path of sparks wherever it touched her. 

She could barely think, all that mattered was finding a way to get enough oxygen while she found a way to wrap herself more completely with him. One leg she had hooked over the back of his knee, the better to keep him flush against her, and she was very probably leaving scratch marks on his back from how hard she dug her fingers into his shoulders. And _oh_ , she could feel his length pressed between them, rubbing against her with every desperate, grinding roll of their hips, pushing her a little higher and a little hotter as she panted and kissed him and cursed the fact that she hadn’t stopped to remove any of her clothing either. 

Beneath her shirt, her nipples were so hard that they ached, the friction of his body on them making her whimper and writhe; she wondered if touching them would soothe them, and she wondered if _kissing_ them would soothe them. The thought of Thexan with his mouth at her breast made her shiver violently, bucking against him and he gasped, the sound frantic and needy. _Oh_ , she liked that. 

“ _Thexan_ ,” she moaned, and he kissed her so fiercely that she saw stars winking behind her eyes. One of his hands was beneath the hem of her shirt, his fingers dancing over the trembling skin on her belly, and she whimpered as they drifted higher towards her breast. 

Her skin felt too hot and too tight and her blood felt like it was sizzling and sparking and all she could taste was _him_ and all she could smell was _him_ and goddess but she wanted _more_. 

One of her hands sank lower on his back, encouraging him to grind against her; at the shuddering gasps he made at the touch, she let her fingers creep lower, down to the waistband of his pants. “ _Gods, Ona’la_ ,” he rasped, panting as he tried to kiss her. He was frantic, his movements uncoordinated and messy and desperate and she _loved_ it.

She’d never been so out of her mind with lust before, and she couldn’t concentrate on anything but _more_ , more of _this_ , more of _him_ , more of the pleasure building in her that had her so turned on that she was certain she’d soaked through her underpants. She should have been embarrassed that Thexan was sure to feel it, but quite the opposite- she wanted him to know, she wanted him to be as delighted by it as she was by his arousal, she wanted him to preen smugly from knowing what he was capable of doing to her, she wanted him to touch her-

When she kissed him again, her fingers digging in to the top of his arse to urge him closer, he let out a high-pitched groan that sounded like it was trying to be her name; he shuddered violently, bucking hard against her, his movements jerky and erratic. When he stilled almost as abruptly as he’d started, she froze, blinking dazedly as she realised what had just happened. 

His face was buried in the curve of her neck, where she could feel his breath wheezing rapidly over her skin; it was enough to make her shiver, and she let one hand drift up to the back of his head, running her fingers through the close shorn hair. “Thexan?” she whispered, biting her lip as she tried not to whimper at the unsatiated sensations still plaguing her. “Are... are you alright?” 

She could feel him shivering, little shudders wracking through him as he lay slumped atop her. “I’m just waiting for the embarrassment to kill me,” he said hoarsely, his words so quiet she had to strain to hear them. 

“What?” She pulled back slightly, trying to make him look up to meet her gaze. “Why are you embarrassed?” 

His face was flushed and his eyes were dazed; his lips were deliciously swollen in a way that made her feel ridiculously smug for having been the cause of such a look. But he had trouble meeting her eyes, and kept trying to nuzzle down onto her shoulder again as if he could distract her from the question.

“Thexan?”

“I can’t imagine there’s any appeal in a man who can’t even control himself long enough to remove his clothes,” he murmured, something pitiful in his tone. 

It broke her heart a little, and for a moment she did her best to ignore the fire still burning in her loins and making her desperate to fidget against him; instead she slid her hand up his back in a soothing sweep, cradling the back of his head as she turned his face towards hers and kissed him deeply. He returned the kiss with an almost woeful desperation, as if he was waiting for it to be a cruel joke at his expense.

She let the kiss wind to a lazy completion, feeling him slowly relax against her until most of the tension has bled from him. “Why wouldn’t I find it appealing that someone desires me so much that they lose all sense of control in my arms?” she whispered, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose. “I can think of plenty of things I _do_ find it- thrilling, for one thing. Ego-inflating comes to mind too.”

He laughed awkwardly, and he twisted slightly in her arms so that he could prop himself up on one elbow; the movement was enough to press his thigh against her core again and she cried out softly, doing her best not to squirm and chase the sensation. He looked less abashed now and a little more intrigued by her reaction. “You haven’t...?”

She wasn’t precisely sure what he was asking, whether he meant to ask whether she’d had an orgasm or not, or whether he was asking if she’d _ever_ had one, but she shook her head. 

He licked his lips, his gaze flicking down to where his hand still rested on her belly. “Do you... I mean, I thought I might have- killed the mood, or something...”

She shifted as subtly as she could, biting back a whimper at the way his fingers drummed softly on her skin. “On the _Doombringer_ ,” she whispered, trying not to giggle at the look of confusion that flashed through his eyes, “you weren’t the only one who was _distracted_.”

Thexan cocked his head to the side, as if considering her words, and then he very pointedly pressed his thigh against her again; her eyes fluttered closed, her toes curling in her boots- _oh goddess, they’d never gotten around to taking off their shoes_ \- and she didn’t try to hold back her moan this time. 

“What distracted you?” he asked, his voice trembling. 

“You did.” The hand on her belly slid lower, his fingers toying with the waistband of her pants, and she let out a desperate sob. “Your hands, I thought about your hands.”

“What were they doing?” he persisted. 

She took a shuddering breath. “Touching me,” she said, doing her best not to whimper the words.

He said a word she didn’t recognise, possibly something in the native tongue of his people, but the meaning was clear even if she didn’t understand it- something muttered hoarsely and reverentially after she’d just admitted to wanting him to wring an orgasm from her? He’d sworn. 

She’d have to remember that word, or tease the meaning of it from him at a later date when she was more in control of her thoughts. 

“I...” He looked torn, biting his lip as he stared down at her. He came to some kind of decision after a moment, a resigned look in his eyes. “Don’t move,” he said, lurching backwards and all but tumbling off the bed as his legs gave out from under him. 

She sat up in alarm. “Thexan?” 

“Don’t move!” he said in a half panic, climbing to his feet immediately and almost overbalancing again. “I’m going to- I’ll... I’m going to fix this.” He gestured helplessly towards her. “Finish this. You, I mean.”

She raised her eyebrows at him. 

He looked like he was waiting for the floor to swallow him up. “I’m going to clean up,” he said awkwardly, “and then I’m going to... help you.” 

“ _Help_ me?”

“Scyva save me, don’t make me say it.”

She flopped back onto the mattress, trying to quell the brief surge of disappointment in her. “Very well,” she said magnanimously, waving a hand over her head as if announcing some royal proclamation. “I shall await your return with great anticipation.”

There was a moment of silence, and then she heard a muttered “You’ll pay for that.” 

She heard him fumbling about with the bags on the far side of the room, presumably to find a clean pair of underpants, and then the quiet hiss of the door to the refresher; left alone with her thoughts and her suddenly ravenous libido, it was all but impossible not to abruptly start second guessing herself. 

She’d embarrassed herself by being too forward and too free with her affections.

She’d come on too strong and startled him away. 

She’d given him everything he needed and now he was done for the evening. 

She’d allowed him to manipulate her growing affection for him, leaving her this overwrought mess while he was clearheaded and focussed on his goals- be they escape or betrayal or-

The door hissed again, and she tried not to tense, suddenly less than confident about his return. She could hear him moving about, but she didn’t sit up to greet him- the moments of solitude had wormed their way under her skin, and the paranoia was beginning to whisper to her. 

“Ona’la?”

She lifted her head, and found him standing at the foot of the bed, clad only in a pair of dark, skin hugging briefs. The sight of his muscular thighs, and the faint dusting of hair on his legs, made a new shiver of heat pass through her. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, completely earnest. “I didn’t mean for it to be like this.”

Something in his tone made the panic that had been inching through her veins subside, and she relaxed as she propped her head up in her hand. “So there was going to be a swelling orchestra and rose petals drifting down around us as we made passionate, perfect love?” she asked, even if she did bite her lip at the thought of such a suggestion. 

It worked, however, because his eyes widened and even in the dim lighting of the room, she could see his cheeks colour. “What? I- no, I don’t mean...” He grimaced, rubbing at his scar for a moment as if it pained him. “I just mean that you deserved better.”

She smiled sadly. “Isn’t it my prerogative to decide what I deserve?” 

He huffed out a laugh. “You are insufferable when you want to be,” he said. He stepped up to the edge of the bed, his fingers tapping on the heel of her boots. She lifted her leg at the command, and he slid her boot and stocking away from her skin, his hands lingering more than necessary over her ankle when she sighed at the contact. “I just mean, it shouldn’t have been like this, I guess.” 

“Like what?”

“Well, maybe having a partner who doesn’t come in their pants like a giddy fourteen year old boy would help.”

She couldn’t help herself- she giggled, and at his pained sigh she covered her face and tried to stop them from growing into full-blown laughter. 

“Your understanding truly soothes my ego,” he said wryly.

“I enjoyed it,” she said, “doesn’t that count for something?”

He held her leg up as if he was inspecting her ankle, and surprised her by pressing a kiss to the bared skin; her surprise grew when his hand gently tugged on the fabric of her pants, the subdued arousal in her flaring back to life as she realised what he intended. 

His gaze met hers, and something in his eyes made it hard to breath for a moment. “May I?” he asked quietly, setting her leg back down as he knelt on the bed and reached for her belt. 

She bit her lip, nodding quickly. She let out a small sound as the pants slid down her legs- he was doing something to make it more erotic, the cad, how could pants coming off feel so sexy?- and she saw his lip curl with a smug smile in response. “Something amiss?” he asked, far too pleased with himself. 

Ona’la shivered, her lip trembling. “I’m fine,” she said, as he tossed her pants onto the floor beside the bed. 

He stretched out beside her, his expression alone enough to make her shiver; he looked like a lothcat with a bowl of cream, far too smug and far too satisfied, and the way he swept his hand up the curve of her hip to her waist made her want to close her eyes and purr in return. He was propped up on one elbow, enough to lean over her ever so slightly, and as his hand came to rest on her belly she held her breath. 

“May I?” he asked again, his nose brushing against hers as his lips ghosted a kiss over her mouth. 

She thought about making a smart mouthed response, or something sly and teasing, but all she could do was nod faintly. He pulled back, ever so slightly, enough so that he could stare down at her almost disbelievingly as his fingers slid beneath the top of her underpants and over the smooth skin of her mons. 

Even that was enough to make her mouth fall open on a moan, and Thexan matched her with a hissed breath, his eyes heavy lidded as he watched her. 

When his fingers encountered the slick proof of her arousal he groaned, and she could feel his cock hardening slowly against her hip again. She, for her part, was struggling to remember how to breathe, because it was one thing entirely to touch herself in a mostly perfunctory fashion in the privacy of her rooms, and another thing entirely to lie vulnerable and open to the touch of another person, his fingers leaving a trail of ferocious, hungry need in their wake as they moved over her. He traced gently along the skin, as if learning the shape of her first before indulging himself, and she was shaking with need by the time he dipped a finger into the heat.

Her head fell back with an almost panicked cry, as he carefully brushed over her clitoris; his hand stilled instantly. “Was that-?”

“Good, it’s good,” she said, all but sobbing the words. “Please don’t stop.”

After a moment’s hesitation, he repeated the gesture, rubbing in little circles until she was writhing under his hand; he was panting as he watched her, his hips jerking against her as she squirmed, and when he shifted as if to change the angle of his hand she clawed frantically at him. “No, no, please,” she whimpered. “Just... like that. That’s good. Keep doing that.”

He adjusted his motions immediately. “Like that?”

“A tiny bit more- oh, _Thexan_.” 

He groaned and then his mouth was on hers again, his thigh sliding between hers as if to allow him better access with his hand; the sensation of his bare leg against hers was like lightning, like physical sparks were buzzing and hissing over her skin. She could barely breathe, caught up in the utter deluge of sensations from every quarter, and yet all she knew was that she wasn’t _close_ enough and she needed _more_ of him and goddess help her but this wasn’t the same as when she did it herself, this wasn’t the same at all, she was going to die, it was too much pressure in her and she was going to dissolve in a wave of sheer sensation- 

When she came, she thought she was coming apart- she felt her body lock in spasm, her feet scrabbling for purchase on the sheets even as Thexan’s leg kept her pinned. She couldn’t see, stars blinking behind her eyes as her back arched off the bed, his hand still eagerly wringing every last drop of pleasure out of her; there was a sound, there were noises, and it took her a few moments to realise that it was _her_ , that the keening, sobbing wails were coming from her, and she was trying to say his name, but goddess help her it was _hard_. 

And she was kissing him, or he was kissing her, or maybe it was both, and her head was buzzing and she was twitching from the aftershocks and...

Goddess preserve her. 

Thexan removed his hand from between her legs at some point, and instead he cradled her face fiercely in his hands as he kissed her breathless; she could smell herself on his hand, the musky smell of sex and pleasure, and she hoped it didn’t bother him. 

It could have been minutes later or it could have been hours later, but eventually she came enough to her senses to be aware of the fact that they were lying entwined together in the bed, limbs tangled and the smell of sex in the air, her shirt rucked up high and exposing her belly. They were resting so close together that each breath was a kiss, and she realised he was watching her, as if waiting for her to return to him. 

She managed a shaky laugh. “Hi,” she said awkwardly, for want of anything better to say.

It had the desired effect, because Thexan immediately broke out into a grin as well, equal parts smug and bashful. “Hi,” he said, almost teasingly. 

Ona’la tried to stretch, shivering at the lingering flickers of pleasure the movement caused. “I, um...” She licked her lips. “I liked that.”

His hand smoothed over the curve of her hip, bared to his touch but for the scant protection her underpants provided. “Oh you did, did you?” he asked, nuzzling at her brow. “I couldn’t tell.”

She giggled, trying to hide her face against his chest; the hair there was far softer than she’d expected it to be, and she amused herself for a moment with the way it felt against her skin. “No teasing,” she whispered shyly. 

“Mm,” he rumbled, his arms going around her, warm and safe. “I liked it too, you know.”

“Oh?”

“It’s like you said,” he said, “I quite enjoyed seeing you lose control in my arms because of me.”

Ona’la groaned, hiding her smile from him. 

“In fact,” he continued, “I probably liked it _too_ much.” 

That got her attention, and she tentatively peeked up at him. 

He sighed, a rueful expression on his face. “At the risk of feeding your ego any more,” he said, “I think we _both_ need to go and clean up this time.”


	35. Chapter 35

It had been a very long time since he’d woken up to someone else sharing his bed- it had been a regular enough occurrence for he and Arcann to fall asleep together as children, grubby and exhausted after the day’s adventures, and there had been a few years after father had chained Vaylin’s powers when she’d had trouble sleeping, succumbing to night terrors and refusing to sleep unless she had one of her brothers close at hand- but waking up for the third time to find Ona’la in his arms was enough of a marvel that he considered pinching himself to see if he was still dreaming. 

The morning was warm already, and the heat of her as she lay across him should have been verging on uncomfortable, but he found he didn’t mind it really. His hand was tingling slightly, as if it had been tucked under them both at a weird angle for a time before he’d woken, and he flexed it carefully as he tried not to wake her. Actually, now that he thought about it, his jaw was aching too- maybe it was less to do with sleeping at a bad angle and more to do with everything they’d done together before they’d fallen asleep. 

Scyva save him. 

Certain parts of him were very much awake, and despite the intimacies they’d indulged in together last night, he still felt self conscious enough to shift his hips slightly, enough so that she wouldn’t wake up to find his cock jammed into her thigh. The bed still smelled of sex, and the lazy sense of bliss he felt after waking combined with that to have him smiling sleepily against the curve of her lekku. 

He didn’t even care about the embarrassment of the night before, when he’d come in his pants just from the thrill of feeling her writhe beneath him; he didn’t care that they’d never done anything more than fumble about with overeager hands, half clothed and clumsy and blissfully, stupidly wonderful. She hadn’t laughed at his inexperience- and apparently laughable stamina- and she hadn’t pushed him further into demanding something he wasn’t ready to attempt yet. 

Stars above, she’d spent a good portion of the evening in a half panic, convinced that she was taking advantage of him, and while maybe once upon a time he would have been infuriated by the presumption that anyone could possibly take advantage of _him_ , a prince of Zakuul and avenging conqueror and son of a godkiller, now he found himself... flattered. Maybe that was the right word. It was something warm and intangible, something that made him feel at once shyly vulnerable and remarkably safe. She desired him so much that she was worried she was going to ravish him in a frenzy- and wasn’t _that_ good for the ego, to see a woman as calm and composed as Ona’la admitting how badly he frayed her control- but she cared for him so much that even caught in the grips of lust, she was worried about him, trying to protect him. 

Even setting aside the fact that they’d had some kind of sex- were there _levels_ to this? Was it sex when they were both still partly dressed and they’d not, well... _connected_ anything?

Honestly, he made himself cringe with his own ignorance; maybe he should have risked using their holonet to find something- _anything_ \- to make him seem less naive. He’d told her the truth, last night, that he’d never had an interest in physical pursuits before now- he’d learned how to bring himself brief relief as a teenager, and had dealt with it whenever the need arose, but with a partner? With another person to see him so awkward and exposed?

He traced a finger over her skin, marvelling in the velvet soft texture and the rich hues of the blue. Sex, he had assumed, was going to be a purely functional activity, undertaken once his father had arranged a marriage for him or selected an individual upon whom he wished to bestow his political favour. Another aspect of his father’s control over him, where sex would be his obligation and his duty as a prince, to be scheduled ahead of time and completed to the satisfaction of all parties involved, whether the outcome be siring a child or impressing the gratitude of his father upon the recipient by means of sexual favours.

He hadn’t ever thought about what it might mean to choose his partner himself. He hadn’t ever entertained the possibility of meeting someone and enjoying the company of someone long enough for his thoughts to turn towards sex and desire. 

Or love. 

She chose that moment to wake, as if she could sense the perilously emotional direction his thoughts were taking and had roused herself to soothe him. He felt his chest tighten at the sight of the purple of her irises, as she blinked sleepily and tried to focus on him; she offered him a smile that was at once gentle and soothing while also immediately lighting a fire in his belly. 

“Good morning,” she murmured, her hand resting on his chest. “It is morning, right?”

He licked his lips, and he saw her gaze dip down to his mouth. “It is,” he said, his own voice husky with disuse. “Good morning.” 

Her eyes fluttered slightly as she stretched, and the sensation of her muscles shifting and tightening as she pressed up against his side was enough to leave him light-headed for a moment. She sighed softly, as if satisfied with the stretch. “May I kiss you?” she asked just as softly, taking him by surprise.

“I- yes,” he said, surprised again by how pleased he was at the request. Pleased that she would ask in the first place, pleased that her first thought upon waking was him... alright, if he had to be honest, he felt smug.

She shifted, wiggling until she’d made up the few inches necessary to cross the distance between them; he smirked at her, secretly delighted by the way she had him half pinned and doing his best not to moan at the feel of her bare legs against his. Ona’la’s hand came up to his face, cradling his cheek, and then she was kissing him, her mouth sliding so gently over his that it made him shudder, the tentative brush of her tongue a moment later making him want to let her devour him. 

Instead she kissed him softly, and slowly, as if he was something she wanted to savour and take her time with. As if he was something _precious_ to her.

That was so far outside the realms of his experience that for a moment he felt a spike of panic; he must have tensed, because Ona’la stopped immediately, pulling back with a curious look on her face. “No good?” she asked carefully. 

He swallowed, trying to bottle up that moment of fear; he reached up, and she let him run his fingers over her face, winding down to her lips and tracing them slowly. “I’m okay,” he said, even though it wasn’t quite the truth. When she quirked an eyebrow at him, he finished with “You have _terrible_ morning breath.” 

He thought he might have offended her, but a huge grin broke over her face. “ _You_ can’t talk, Your Highness,” she said, leaning in and pressing another kiss to his mouth. He relaxed into it, relieved beyond measure that she hadn’t baulked at his moment of discomfort, that she hadn’t made a big deal about it and pressed him for answers. What answer could he even give? 

_Oh, it’s just that your interest in me and attraction towards me frightens me, because I’ve never had someone care for me like that before, and the last person I loved tried to kill me._

Gods, but he couldn’t compare her to Arcann- he’d spent his entire life wrapped so tightly around Arcann that sometimes it had been hard to tell where he ended and his brother began, switching names and rings and identities. Everything he was had been devoted to Arcann, as if they had merely been extensions of one another rather than individuals. Ona’la, by comparison, challenged him as often as she comforted him, gently coaxing him outside of his comfort zone without coddling him while patiently expecting him to do better. 

... he probably shouldn’t be thinking about his brother while he was kissing Ona’la.

She could apparently sense his distraction, because she pulled back again, rubbing her nose against his. “Thexan,” she said softly, her voice making him shiver, “you should have just said something.”

He had one hand on her back, and the other had come to rest on her waist, holding her half on him; one of her legs was almost settled between his, enough that he had considered just pulling her the rest of the way so she could lie atop him while they cuddled. “I don’t want to do things wrong,” he murmured, because it was halfway to the truth, at least. 

“Making yourself do things you’re not comfortable with is pretty high on my list of ways to do this wrong.” 

He swallowed. “I should be stepping outside my comfort zone and breaking away from who I used-”

“ _Thexan_ ,” she said wearily, “stepping outside of your comfort zone when it comes to moral choices is wonderful. Stepping outside of your comfort zone when it comes to your personal boundaries and body is not.” She ran the backs of her fingers over his jaw, the touch featherlight. “I don’t want to do anything that makes you feel uncomfortable or stressed, even if it’s just kissing that does it.” 

“I want you to be happy,” he said quietly, steeling himself from cringing at the confession.

“And I want you to feel _safe_ ,” she said earnestly, cupping his cheek in her hand. “It makes me happy to know I can give you that much, at least. You don’t need to compromise that for my sake.” 

He stared up at her, his mood teetering between ecstatic and miserable; after a few long moments he hesitantly asked “Will you just... hold me?” 

She didn’t say anything, simply shifted enough so that she could draw him into her arms, tucking his head down against her breast where he could close his eyes and just breathe her in. He clung to her, his arms tight around her waist, but she didn’t complain about the pressure- in fact, he felt the tips of her lekku brush over his skin, the same absent sort of intimacy that she performed with her hands as she ran them over his back, rubbed at his shoulders, cradled the back of his head as if she were protecting him. 

He didn’t understand how it was possible to feel safer than he’d ever felt in his life, while simultaneously feeling excruciatingly exposed and vulnerable. He didn’t even realise he was shaking until she whispered gently against his brow, murmuring reassurances to him that he wasn’t quite sure that he heard, but whose message was unmistakable even if he couldn’t make out the words. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, trying to swallow down the ugly, miserable feelings inside of him. It was like trying to swallow an acidic lump, and it burned all the way through him. 

“Why are you sorry?” She smoothed her fingers over his head, her lips against his brow and her heartbeat thudding faintly beneath his cheek. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” 

He squeezed his eyes tight shut. “I’ve hurt you so much,” he said hoarsely. 

She breathed out slowly, as if considering her words carefully before she spoke. “You _did_ hurt me, Thexan,” she said. “I’m not going to lie to you and tell you that the first invasion wasn’t a source of great distress and stress for me, or that I haven’t had nightmares about Eriadu, because I respect you too much to coddle you.”

“I’m sorry, I’m-”

“But,” she said firmly, putting her fingers under his chin and applying just enough pressure to have him turn his face up to meet her gaze, “I have seen a man genuinely remorseful of what he has done, who is working to understand how best not to do it again, and I forgave him.” 

Her eyes seemed to cut right through him. “You didn’t forgive Theron,” he started, but she shook her head immediately. 

“We’re not _talking_ about Theron,” she said, an edge to her tone that almost made him feel like he was being scolded. “We’re talking about you.” 

He stared at her, agonized at the need to ask the question on the tip of his tongue but terrified of the answer. “I don’t even know why you like me,” he said finally. 

She blinked, clearly not having expected that statement at all, and then something sad came over her features. It was gone a moment later, but he hadn’t mistaken it, and it made his stomach churn miserably. Clearly she thought him pitiful, clearly she-

“I like you, Thexan,” she said, smoothing her hand through the close crop of his hair, “because you are determined, and stubborn, and loyal, and brave. I like you because you have a wonderful intellect, and an even better sense of humour when you allow yourself to relax enough to use it, and more than both of those you are kind, even to those you have no reason to be patient with.”

Now it was his turn to blink in surprise. “Oh,” was all he could say.

Ona’la smiled gently at him. “I happen to find you excellent company, and very good to talk to,” she said, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose. “You make me smile, and you make me laugh, and I feel... comfortable with you. Safe, I suppose. I trust you, Thexan.”

“I don’t know why.”

“Mm, playing stubborn are we?” She kissed his brow, and despite the misery churning in his gut, he felt himself start to relax by inches as her hand rubbed soothingly at his back. “I trust you because you chose to protect me when the Sky-troopers attacked the _Defiance_. Because you felt my distress when I had a bad night on Coruscant and came to check on me. Because you trusted me enough to let me help you with your pain, and with your panic attacks, even when you had every right to distrust me and despise me.”

He nuzzled at her throat, because it was easy to hide himself from her gaze that way. “It’s impossible to despise you,” he said quietly. “You’re too... _everything_.”

“Well, that certainly narrows it down,” she said with amusement in her voice. 

“I’m not good at coherency right now.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” she teased gently. “Shall I keep going, or have I comforted your ego?”

That stung a little, that she thought it simply an exercise in vanity for him; she must have sensed his hesitation, because he heard her sigh. “Thexan,” she said, “you are an extraordinary man, and I truly like you. That’s the honest truth.” When he didn’t say anything immediately, she continued. “Would it help if I said that I also find you incredibly attractive to the point of distraction?” 

A bubble of warmth fluttered up in him at that, and he was thankful that she couldn’t see him trying to hide his smile against her skin. “That... helps a little,” he said shyly. 

“Good,” she said, kissing along the top of his ear until he squirmed. “Because you are _terribly_ distracting, you know.”

He couldn’t help but giggle when she kept up her relentless assault on his ear and neck, trying to wriggle out of reach of the increasingly ticklish kisses. He could feel her smile as she did it, and somehow that just made it even funnier, and he was laughing and squirming and she was kissing and nibbling and it didn’t seem quite so overwhelming when it was like this- when they could laugh together and enjoy one another without the outside world pressing in on his thoughts. 

When she kissed him again, he leaned up into the touch, meeting her mouth almost eagerly as she pressed him down against the pillows. She had one leg between his, to give her leverage over him, and _stars above_ he hadn’t really ever given it any thought before now but being pinned down by her was _definitely_ one of his favourite things ever; she was easily as strong as he was, if not more so, and there was something particularly thrilling about being at her mercy. 

“Is this okay?” she asked, her mouth sliding down to nip at his neck ever so gently. 

He bit his lip and closed his eyes, stopping himself from bucking up against her like some kind of untrained dog. “ _Don’t stop_ ,” he said, hoping against hope that she wouldn’t find his pathetic whimper to be laughable. It didn’t help when she rolled her hips against him instead, and the whimper turned into a needy moan.

She kissed him so hard it stole his breath away, and he was trembling by the time she pulled back again. “Can I touch you?” she asked, her voice husky. “Like you touched me?” 

Between them, his cock throbbed at the mere suggestion of it, almost painfully hard. “I, um...” He shivered violently. “Slowly?”

She nodded. “Of course,” she said, kissing him lazily, little teasing tastes of her that helped him try to relax beneath her. Her thigh rubbed at him where it rested between his legs, the gentle rocking motion steadily stoking the heat within him; her hand was hot where it rested on his belly, and even addled with lust he noticed how careful she was with the scar tissue over his torso, how she never directly applied any weight to it or used anything more than the flat of her hand to touch him, no pressure on the wound itself. 

Somehow, knowing that she wanted to be gentle with him even while trying to have sex made him want her to touch him even more. 

When she ran her fingers lightly over his length through the fabric of his underpants, he moaned again, his head falling back as he gasped at the contact. She palmed him, and he bucked into her hand. “Like that?” she asked, and he was at least mollified to see that she was flushed and wild-eyed as well. 

He swallowed. “It’s a good start,” he rasped. He was panting by the time her fingers moved to the fabric band and slid beneath, the sound trailing off on a high pitched moan as she touched him for the first time. 

And then she paused, very pointedly lifting her head and glancing down towards where her hand disappeared inside his underpants. “You have hair there as well?” she asked curiously, propping herself up on her free elbow as if she wanted to get a better look.

He tried to laugh, but it didn’t come out quite right- it bordered on hysterical, his hands clenched tight in the sheets beside his hips. “Is that really the most pressing thing on your mind right now?” he said hoarsely, trying not to thrust into her touch. 

“It’s just-” She laughed, colour in her cheeks that seemed to be a little more from embarrassment than from arousal. “Why would you need hair there? Oh, goddess, it’s springy!”

He did laugh this time, eyes closed. “I don’t remember my biology lessons covering the evolutionary reasoning for pubic hair,” he said, moaning between gritted teeth as she stroked him. 

“Humans are so _strange_ ,” she said, almost reverentially, and clearly delighted. “You’re so... it feels like velvet, or something, I thought it’d be hard- I mean, it is _hard_ , of course, but it’s so nice, it’s soft-”

“Are you going to narrate the entire time?” 

“I’m sorry, I’m babbling-”

He groaned. “And apologising, we talked about that.”

Her answer came in the form of her fingers suddenly wrapping around his length, the experimental squeeze she gave making him choke on the words. 

“Is that a good apology?” she whispered, nuzzling at the corner of his mouth. 

Panting, he turned his face the last half inch or so to kiss her. “It’s my favourite so far,” he said hoarsely, moaning and clutching at her when she did it again. 

In hindsight, there was not a chance in any grey and formless hell that he was going to last for any decent amount of time- although what constituted a _decent_ amount of time, he honestly had no idea- but he still couldn’t help but feel that the time it took her to reduce him to a gibbering, shaking mess should have been embarrassing. She kept him pinned to the bed with her weight, one leg still thrown over his thigh while she found the rhythm that matched his jerking hips; she kissed him hard enough to bruise, and he felt so wonderfully, _terrifyingly_ at her mercy. When he spilled over in her hand, his hips stuttering and her name half-formed on his lips, she breathed out his name in reply; she kissed him again as he fought to catch his breath, soft and gentle and stars above but he felt drunk with her, like he was drowning in the feeling of her and the taste of her and he never wanted to break out of it. 

She was short of breath as well, and he could at least take pride in the fact that his pleasure affected her too. “You’re so beautiful like this,” she whispered, and he tried to laugh.

“Aren’t I the one supposed to be saying that to you?” 

She carefully withdrew her hand from his pants, and he saw her glance curiously at his seed in her palm. “There’s nothing to say I can’t say it,” she said, turning back and kissing him lazily. Then she pulled back, her head cocked to the side. 

“What?” he asked hoarsely.

She grinned widely, almost deviously. “I _still_ can’t believe humans have hair down there.” 

____

They lingered in bed for a time, half awake and sleepily kissing; Thexan seemed remarkably bashful and affectionate, more so than he had the night before, and Ona’la _adored_ it. She didn’t even mind when he pressed soft kisses to the old scars around her neck, something that might have horrified her a year ago. It was almost uncomfortably warm as the world woke around them, with their legs entwined together and his palms flat against her back, tucked beneath the fabric of her shirt so that he could touch her bare skin; she couldn’t remember a time when she’d felt so content and relaxed.

She could quite happily have stayed in bed with him all day, napping and kissing and teasing one another with their hands and their mouths, but the world wouldn’t wait for them. 

Eventually she roused herself with much grumbling, settling back onto her haunches and stretching her arms up over her head to work out the kinks in her back; from where he lay against the pillows, Thexan watched her, eyes burning with heated interest as he drank her in. She wasn’t above lingering slightly as she stretched, maybe taking a little longer than she should have; she was only mortal, after all, and she had her weaknesses. 

Admittedly, she hadn’t ever expected one of those weaknesses to be soaking up the admiration of a Zakuulan prince in the bedroom, but life was unexpected like that. 

“Will you be alright if I go to wash up?” she asked.

He had just enough reach to touch her knee without moving from his very comfortable spot, and his fingers tickled as he slid them over the inside of her leg. “I could come with you,” he murmured, something sneaky in his smile. 

It made her shiver. “If you did that, we wouldn’t be ready for a long time,” she said pointedly.

“I could watch.” 

Oh, but he was a menace when he wanted to be. She leaned forward on her hands and knees, ducking down to kiss him briefly. “You wait your turn, Your Highness,” she said against his mouth. “Patience is a virtue, after all.”

She left him in the bed, trying her best not to glance back to see if he was watching her as she made her way to the refresher; it was even worse once she’d stripped away the last of her clothes, shivering at the thought of turning around to find him there, staring silently as he took in her nudity. It made it far more difficult to wash briskly, when every part of her felt achingly sensitive and seemed to cry out for her attention. 

It certainly didn’t help when she was clean and dressed and stepped out of the door to find Thexan waiting for her, still clad only in his underpants which sat low and tight over his hips; she thought he meant to kiss her as he crowded her up against the wall, but his head instead ducked down to her neck, his mouth ghosting over the skin so lightly that she couldn’t help but moan softly. 

“You smell nice,” he murmured, his lips lingering just below the curve of her ear cone.

She shuddered. “It’s only soap,” she whispered. 

“And you. That’s nice.”

She was proud of herself for managing to angle him into the ‘fresher without following him in there, although she was remarkably light-headed by the time the door slid closed between them. Busying herself with the rest of her ablutions, she was conservatively dressed by the time he emerged, carefully applying the rest of her makeup with a hand mirror for help. 

“Did you eat anything?” she asked, nodding towards the platter of fruits and non-perishables they’d been picking over these last few days. 

“A little. I don’t know if I’m hungry yet.” 

“You can’t _not_ eat, your body needs the energy.”

He gave her a wry look as he pulled a shirt on over his head. “I didn’t say I _wasn’t_ going to eat,” he said pointedly. 

“I’m trying to fuss, I thought you’d be used to that by now.” 

The expression on his face turned bashful, and he looked away; she thought he might have made some sort of sound of agreement, but he didn’t look at her again. They finished dressing in silence, and more than once they found themselves glancing at each other at the same time, only to grin in embarrassment at having been caught and look away again. 

“Do you know what Tahrin intends to talk about today?” he asked, as they made their way through the door and out into the bright morning air.

Ona’la blinked in the sunlight, pausing to let him fall into step beside her. “I’m not sure, to be honest,” she said, considering whether or not to loop her arm through his as they walked. “I imagine more of the same as yesterday.” 

“Arguments and egos and unmoveable contrary political dogma?” 

“Have a care, Thexan, you almost sound cynical about our beloved diplomatic processes.” 

On the far side of the bridge, sprawled on a bench beside the great stone doors, was the bounty hunter Ysaine. Her arms were stretched out over the back of the bench, long enough to reach both ends without great effort, and her legs were stretched out in front of her, crossed at the ankle; to all intents and purposes, she looked like she was just out and about enjoying the morning sunshine. 

Ona’la knew better. 

Their steps slowed as they drew closer to her, and her head dropped down to face them. She was possibly the most extraordinarily intimidating non-Force user that Ona’la had ever met, a figurative mountain of a woman who had towered over everyone else in the hall yesterday with the exception of the wookiee. Having heard the stories about ‘ _the Republic’s Most Wanted_ ’ and the peculiar nature of the public apology and retraction that had emerged later, she couldn’t tell what about the woman was fact and what was fantasy. 

But she suspected she would not have been a guest at this assembly were she all talk and no substance. 

“Hey, Blue,” she drawled, offering her a smile that seemed to be more teeth than warmth. “Y’got a sec?” 

Thexan had already bristled warningly as they approached her, and Ona’la immediately put a hand on his chest to calm him. “It’s alright,” she said quietly, waiting until he looked at her instead of staring threateningly at the Mandalorian. “I’ll be inside in just a moment.”

He was clearly conflicted, but after a long few heartbeats of hesitation he nodded slightly, reluctantly clinging to her hand even as he stepped away. She bit back a smile at the way her fingers trailed through his, her arm falling slowly back to her side once he finally let go and walked inside. 

Smoothing her palms over her robes and offering a mild smile, Ona’la turned back to Ysaine. “What can I help you with, Miss Pierce?” 

She groaned loudly. “Okay, for one, never call me _Miss Pierce_ again,” she said, leaning against the stone wall of the temple and hooking one foot around the other ankle. She had her arms crossed over her chest, and Ona’la was quite certain that her biceps were about as big around as Ona’la’s thighs. “I ain’t had no one call me that since I was fucking nineteen or something.” 

“Alright. Are you comfortable with me calling you Ysaine?”

The grin she offered her was a bit more genuine than the one she’d opened with. “Look at you, all formal and shit. It’s adorable.”

Ona’la bristled at that. “It’s simply courtesy,” she said patiently. 

“Yeah, sorry, but I ain’t met a lot of Jedi who were overly courteous to me. This is a novelty for me.”

They were getting nowhere fast. “Was there something I can help you with, Ysaine?” she asked again. “I assume you had a reason for stopping me before the meeting begins.”

“You got a little something,” she said, sticking a finger on her jaw as if to indicate where it was. “You need something for it?”

“I’ve got...?” Ona’la touched her jaw, blinking when her fingers came away clean. “I’m sorry?”

Ysaine clicked open a compartment on her rather bulky wrist guards and a little flat box fell out; she pulled it open and Ona’la stared at the sight of a selection of cosmetic powders lined up within. Ysaine grunted. “Wrong one,” she said, by way of explanation, stuffing it back in and switching to the other wrist. Another flat box fell out, and this one had a range of colours in a cooler spectrum, including blues. The Mandalorian held it out to her. “I think your boy got a little too eager last night.”

Her stomach plummeted. “Oh,” she said, taking the offered cosmetic box and holding the tiny mirror up to inspect herself. Sure enough, just as Ysaine had said, there was a small mark on the very edge of her jaw, sitting just above the brim of her collar. 

She couldn’t remember ever wanting to dissolve with embarrassment before, but this wasn’t ever a situation she thought she’d find herself in before- having a hickey pointed out by a Mandalorian in a Sith fortress. A hickey that was given to her by Vitiate’s son. 

“Dunno if I’ve got anything quite your skin tone,” Ysaine continued, apparently utterly unconcerned with the mark. “I used to have some blue foundation back when I was single- had a chiss friend, if you get me- but those days were back when I was younger and more sprightly.” 

Ona’la hesitantly picked up the small brush and dabbed at the blue tablet that was the closest match to her throat. “I, um...” She swallowed awkwardly, grateful at least that the need to focus in the mirror gave her a reason not to make eye contact. “Thank you.”

“No worries,” she said. “Always did hate trying to have fancy meetings when everyone could tell I had my brains fucked out the night before.”

Ona’la closed her eyes in mortification. “I didn’t- that’s not-”

“Any of my business, yeah yeah, I know.” The amusement in her voice made her want to die. “Anyway, I just wanted to say, I don’t have a problem with you Battlemaster. You’re alright.” 

Swallowing, Ona’la forced herself to continue with touching up her skin, trying to hide the mark with the woefully inadequate blue eyeshadow. “I- thank you?” 

Ysaine shrugged. “Wasn’t sure if there was like, rules or something. Whether you had to avenge Seros or whatever.”

It finally clicked. “Master Seros was a man who had seen too much death in his lifetime,” she said quietly, closing the lid on the makeup flat and handing it back. “In the end, the violence consumed him.” 

“So, we’re good?”

“I was appointed to the position of Battlemaster specifically to guide the Order away from the tactics and disciplines that Seros favoured,” Ona’la said. “He was a good man, once upon a time, but we are an Order of peace and he was a man of war.” She paused, considering her words before continuing. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for what he did to you. His were not the actions of a Jedi.”

“Funny how no one thought to rap him over the back of the knuckles before it came to me sinking a few blaster bolts in his gut,” Ysaine drawled.

Ona’la prided herself on the fact that she didn’t wince. “I cannot make excuses for how the Jedi Council allowed him to conduct himself,” she said. “Needless to say, no, you and I do not need to have difficulties.” 

Ysaine beamed at her. “I appreciate that, Battlemaster,” she said. “Don’t reckon I like my chances against you, given how many times you seem to just shake death off and keep walking. It’d be mighty embarrassing for me if you went and got me all dead.” 

Ona’la offered her a tentative smile. “Well, then, I’d hate to be the cause of further embarrassment for you,” she said. She went to step into the shadow of the doorway and continue into the temple, surprised when Ysaine climbed to her not-inconsiderable height with a groan and fell into step beside her. 

“So you and the princeling, huh?” 

She nearly stumbled on the stairs, only saved from tumbling head over heels down the steps by Ysaine’s hand on her arm. “Goddess preserve,” she muttered under her breath.

“Hey, I ain’t one to judge, I fucked a Baroness once. Alderaanian, she was great. I wonder what she’s doing these days.” 

“Thexan and I are _not_ -”

“Whatever you want to call it,” Ysaine said with a shrug. “Anyway, he seems okay. Good thing he ain’t like his daddy, hey? Seems to be a common theme in these parts.”

Ona’la stared at her incredulously. “Excuse me?” 

“Shit fathers. I killed mine- well, stepfather. But your boy seems good, bit like Tazza.”

“Who in all the red sands of Ryloth is _Tazza_?”

“Her magnanimous eminence of frightitude, the Lord Wrath.” Ysaine grinned. “Look, I’ve seen her with baby vomit all over her face, she ain’t anything scary to me. Plus she’s so small! Have you seen her lately? Need a fucking microscope to find her.” 

She was having a conversation with the most infamous bounty hunter in the galaxy, the woman who had killed her predecessor, and she was describing the offspring of Revan and Vitiate as _Tazza_. 

The main hall opened up before them, showing a gathering of now-familiar faces in a more relaxed mood than they had been this time yesterday. Some were eating as they sat about talking, some were staring blankly ahead as they clutched cups of steaming liquid; at least one person was still quite obviously asleep, lying face down on one of the far couches. 

Theron was amongst those with the dazed expression and the steaming mugs, and he blinked sluggishly several times before he seemed to register her arrival in the room; he made as if to stand, then clearly thought better of it, and instead stayed in his seat. He cast her the most wounded hangdog looks though, like a pup locked outside for making a mess indoors and hoping that a sad face would tug the heartstrings enough to be allowed back inside.

And damn it all, it was working- she could feel her resolve wavering under the weight of that look. 

She looked away before she could crumble entirely, and instead found Thexan seated nearby, uneasily watching the rattataki woman who was perched on the other end of the couch making kissing noises at him. At Ona’la’s approach she climbed languorously to her feet, winking as if they shared a secret, and then sauntered away in search of someone else to torment. 

She seemed to be heading in Theron’s direction. 

Taking the seat beside Thexan, she put her hand on his knee briefly. “Are you alright?” she asked quietly. 

He grunted in response. “What did the hunter want?” he asked, his gaze following her as she loped across the room and all but threw herself at Captain Voresh. 

“Nothing terrible,” she said. “Just that Jedi and Mandalorians don’t generally have the best history together. She wanted to clear the air.”

“She killed the previous Battlemaster.”

One day she might not be surprised by Thexan’s extraordinary knowledge of galactic events beyond the borders of Zakuul’s empire, but not today. “She’s promised she won’t be killing me.”

“Good,” he said flatly. “She wouldn’t get past me.” 

Ona’la bit her lip to stop from smiling broadly, but she squeezed his knee in acknowledgement of what those words meant to her. 

In the centre of the room, Tahrin very abruptly switched on the projector and cleared her throat. “There were some issues raised yesterday,” she said, a rather blunt way to begin the day perhaps, but they probably couldn’t expect better from her than that. She wasn’t precisely the type to stop and offer a warm or cheerful good morning. “I think that, given that we are all roughly on the same page now, we can proceed with more precise planning attempts.”

She gave them a moment to object- only a brief moment, mind- and then immediately launched into a detailed rundown of the topics that had been covered and resolved and which were still outstanding. 

Thexan didn’t seem as committed to the proceedings as he had yesterday, frequently introspective and lost in his own thoughts despite the exuberance of the conversation as it flowed around him. A few times, Ona’la glanced at him, only to find his eyes crinkled as if in mild distress, but every time she sat forward with her hand on his knee he shook himself, offering her a terse smile before closing himself off again. 

She couldn’t get a good sense of him- it was like he’d walled himself up, shuttered and detached, and while she tried to tell herself it wasn’t a reflection of her at all, it still worried her. And hurt, if she had to be honest. 

Instead she threw herself wholeheartedly into the meeting, arguing in favour of conducting covert trade agreements to disperse isotope-5 technology, discussing the possibility of joint task forces when it came to conducting inevitable ground defence against the armies of Zakuul, standing her ground in refusing to elaborate on what the Jedi were doing to protect their legacy from being erased entirely. They debated for what felt like hours, and while it was excellent to have long overdue issues aired in a relatively neutral setting, it was still frustratingly slow going. 

And through it all, Thexan did not speak, even when pressed for answers.

Ona’la smiled at him when he rose to his feet and excused himself quietly after several hours, turning her attention back to the meeting. She didn’t think anything of it at first, assuming he had made his way out to relieve himself, but when she looked around a half hour later and found that he still hadn’t returned, she frowned slightly. 

Over by the projector, Tahrin stood as the silent head of the assembly while Moff Pyron and Major Hervoz argued loudly for what felt like the hundredth time; as if sensing the absence at the same time as her, Tahrin glanced over towards Thexan’s empty seat and then looked to Ona’la. Nodding towards the door, Ona’la saw a faint glimmer of concern in Lord Dara’s eyes, which by her standards had to be the equivalent of wringing her hands in dismay and weeping; at Tahrin’s nod of agreement, Ona’la climbed to her feet, smoothing her robes back into place before making her way out of the circle.

“You’re asking us to make a lot of concessions that we just can’t guarantee,” Major Hervoz was saying behind her. “You’ve got your damn Minister of Intelligence sitting right here, and the best we got is a disgraced SIS agent and a special ops officer, and I ain’t privy to half the shit your folk are even when I’m not on the outs with Saresh.” 

“Your influence is not insubstantial, Major Hervoz,” Lana said. “It’s common knowledge that Havoc has an excellent working relationship with the SIS, and General Garza has recently transferred out of Special Ops to work directly with Saresh- or do you expect us to believe your mentor would have cut all ties with you simply because she works in a different department now?” 

“Me feeding out info that I may or may not have, based on private conversations with a woman I respect, is a hell of a lot riskier than you just uploading files that come across your desk as the boss of your side’s spy agency.”

Ona’la left them to it, already exhausted by the nitpicking that was the back and forth of interfaction negotiations. Everyone wanted to stop Zakuul, but nobody wanted to be the one to expose their belly and be the first to be outed as working across the fence; she could understand the reasoning behind it, of course, but the tension was grating on her nerves.

What they needed were more formalised guidelines, perhaps, something that established what role everyone needed to undertake, and what they were expected to contribute. At the moment it felt like far too many voices talking at once, and it wasn’t like they had all the time in the world to come to an accord- the absence of so many powerful figures would be noticed shortly, and someone would start asking questions about where so many could have vanished to at the same time. 

That was a headache for another time, however. At the moment, Thexan was her foremost concern. 

She didn’t find him upstairs on the balcony, which didn’t surprise her, nor was he in any of the outdoor nooks scattered over the grounds. Crossing the bridge across to the other side of the mesa, she concentrated on trying to get a sense for what he was feeling, but she couldn’t tell if the nervous dread in her gut was reflected from him, or whether it was just her own concern over his absence. 

The impression grew stronger as she drew closer to their quarters, and she felt her worry grow tenfold when she opened the door to find the lights off. 

“Thexan?” There was no response, but she could sense him close at hand. She gestured towards the lights, and the lamps cast a warm glow over the stone walls as she stepped inside, the door grinding closed behind her. 

He wasn’t in the bed, but she paused to fidget with the sheets for a moment, pulling them up to sit a little neater against the pillows; as she did, she listened carefully, making no effort to disguise the sound of her movements or pretend she’d left. Whatever was wrong, she wasn’t going to add to his anxiety by surprising him when he thought himself alone. When she was satisfied with the state of the bed, she walked over towards the couch, letting her hands come to rest on the high back.

Thexan was lying huddled on the couch, shielded from view until she’d been practically standing over him. He had his eyes closed, but she could tell he was awake. 

She could also tell that he’d been crying. 

Her heart broke. “Thexan?” she asked quietly, coming around the side of the couch and cautiously perching on the very edge of the cushions by his hip; she reached out and ran her hand soothingly over his head, letting it come to rest on his shoulder. “You should have said something.”

His eyes were scrunched tightly closed, as if he was fighting back more tears or trying to convince himself he could hide from her. 

She wracked her brains, trying to think of what in the meeting so far could have possibly upset him to this state, but everything came up blank. “Do you need to talk at all?” she asked gently, rubbing his shoulder in slow, massaging circles. “Have you had a drink recently?” 

She saw his throat working, as if he was struggling to speak, and after a moment he said hoarsely “You should be at the meeting.” 

“Shh,” she said. “You’re far more important to me than some meeting. What’s wrong?”

He shook his head faintly against the cushion, but he didn’t say anything. She waited patiently for a time, and then she tried again. “I’d like to stay with you,” she said. “Is that alright?” 

After a moment’s hesitation, he nodded. 

“I’m going to move onto the couch properly, alright? Just so you know what I’m doing.” He didn’t answer, so she took that to mean he was okay with it; she rose to her feet and climbed over the cushions that he’d scattered on the floor, settling down further along the couch up by his head. With a little coaxing, she managed to convince him to shift enough so that his head was resting in her lap, and she reached down and took one of his hands in hers, resting their entwined fingers together on his shoulder.

She ran her fingers over his head, just enough pressure to scratch him gently with her nails. He made a soft noise, and she took that to be approval, so she kept going. For a time they were quiet, long enough that she’d begun to wonder if he’d fallen asleep. 

“Would you have liked me if it wasn’t for the war?”

He spoke so quietly that she wasn’t quite sure she’d heard him correctly to start with. “Beg pardon?” she asked carefully, squeezing his hand gently. 

He hesitated again, and she thought he might have lost his nerve, but eventually he said “If we’d met, and it wasn’t... like this... would you have liked me?” 

She breathed out slowly as she considered how to answer, well aware of the fragility such a question suggested. “I was not generally expected to be involved in diplomatic overtures,” she said, her nails running ever so faintly over his head, “so if Zakuul had approached us through official channels, rather than through war, I don’t know that I would necessarily have been involved in greeting you.” 

He deflated so severely, going all but limp against her, that she might have found it amusing if she couldn’t feel his distress. 

“But,” she continued quickly, “that’s not to say that our paths would never have crossed, and if I’d met you in peacetime, and Zakuul was making diplomatic overtures of friendship, I think that I would have found it very hard to keep my distance from you.” She changed the rhythm of her fingers, her nails rolling over his head in slower swirls, and she heard him grunt faintly. “Because if I met a very handsome warrior prince, who was kind like you are and patient like you are and made me laugh like you do, why would I not want to spend time with him?” 

He was quiet again for a very long time, and she didn’t push him to respond. After a time, she realised he was trembling, and glancing down she was dismayed to see him crying silently, his eyes still squeezed tight shut while the tears streamed down his cheeks and onto the fabric of her pants. 

“Thexan...?” 

“There’s just... _so much_ , in my head, and- and-” He swallowed very pointedly, as if he was fighting back a sob. “I don’t- I don’t understand most of it, or- or why it hurts, and I-”

“Shh,” she said, running her hand down to brush away what tears she could. “Just breathe, freykaa, just breathe. I’m here.” 

He took a shuddering breath, his face pressed into her thigh. “I was okay, but then- then everyone was _talking_ , and it- it was too much, and then I- I got angry at myself, because I was okay yesterday, and then it wouldn’t stop-”

“What wouldn’t stop? Can you describe it to me?” 

Thexan made a noise of pure frustration. “All of- _everything_ , just going around and I can’t- it won’t stop, or slow down, and I thought, maybe I just needed quiet or to meditate or something, but it was- it was _louder_ when I was alone, because nothing was... I couldn’t make it _stop_.”

She didn’t even know how to combat something like that. “Has it stopped now?” 

“No, it’s just-” He muffled a groan against her leg. “I _hate_ it.”

“It’s not going to last forever, freykaa,” she said, rubbing gently at his neck. “I’m here with you, and we’ll get you through it.”

“It wasn’t like this at home. I could-” She thought he might have abandoned that train of thought when he cut off abruptly, but after a minute he continued. “I miss Arcann so much?” he said, wording it as a question as if he didn’t even know whether he was permitted such a thing. Her heart broke again. “I just, he was always there, and he’s gone, and it’s like, this- um, this giant empty _space_ where he was except it _hurts_ that it’s empty and I don’t-”

“Shh, it’s alright.” 

He was crying again, unmistakably so this time. “I can’t- I can’t even think straight, nothing works in-” He made a far more furious sound, and his free hand went up to his head as if he was trying to claw it open; Ona’la immediately grabbed at his wrist and stopped him from hurting himself with his nails. “Why is it _like_ this?”

“It’s alright, you’re safe Thexan,” she soothed, lifting his hand up to her mouth and kissing the back of his knuckles. “Just breathe.”

“I _hate_ this.”

“It’s very understandable that you might struggle once you’re out of a volatile situation, Thexan,” she said, rubbing her thumb over the pulse point in his wrist. “Even if you didn’t realise how bad your father’s abuse was, your body was still in a state of extreme stress for a very long time. This is the first time you’ve ever had the opportunity to relax, and your body simply doesn’t know what to do.”

He tried to fight back a sob and ended up choking on it instead; she rubbed him firmly on the back as he coughed, making quiet shushing noises to help calm him. “You’re safe,” she murmured, hoping if she said it enough he would start to believe it. “You’re safe, Thexan. It’s alright.” 

They sat like that for a long, long time, Thexan’s tears eventually tapering off to shuddering hiccups, and then eventually he was still again; she never stopped touching him, running her hand over his back, gently scratching at his head to relax him, rubbing her thumb over his knuckles. The fabric of her pants felt clammy and sticky, but that was hardly important in the grand scheme of things. What was important was that the worst of it seemed to have passed, and she had a vaguely better understanding of what he was struggling with.

It still didn’t feel like enough, though. She still felt like she should have been doing more for him. 

“What did you call me?” he asked hoarsely, sounding as exhausted as if he’d just endured a marathon. “Before, I mean. You said something, fray something.” 

She felt her heart flutter slightly with nerves; she hadn’t even really thought twice about using it, but he’d picked up on it with ease. “Freykaa,” she said quietly, running the backs of her fingers over his cheek. “The word was freykaa.” 

“What does it mean?” 

Nothing else for it but to be honest. “It’s a twi’leki word,” she said. “It means beloved.” 

He rolled over, his head still in her lap as he gazed up at her; his face was puffy and red, his eyes bloodshot, and something extraordinarily vulnerable in his expression as he looked up at her. “Freykaa?” he whispered. 

She smiled down at him, smoothing her hand over his brow. “Freykaa,” she said in agreement.


	36. Chapter 36

“Theron?”

He looked up from where he was seated beside Bobbi, having listened to her wax lyrical for about the last half hour (at least) about the proficiency of her fleet and the starship captains under her employ. Only _some_ of it was an exaggeration, as far as he could tell, which seemed to imply she was at least trying to make an earnest impression about what she could bring to this strange alliance. There was something wrong with her pants, too, but he couldn’t tell what it was precisely- they seemed like the wrong size for her, for one thing, with the cut of them far more suited to Imperial fashion trends than Republic or Independent space. 

Obviously she’d won them from some poor dumb schmuck in one of her schemes, and he had to pity them for falling for her charms in the first place. 

Thessa was standing beside the couch, a blandly unreadable expression on her face as she waited for his response, and apparently utterly unmoved by the strange company he found himself in this morning. The reason for her interruption was obvious; he’d been wondering when his new employers would take a more active interest in what was going on here on Yavin. 

Sitting forward, he said “Uh, yes! Yes, I mean, what can I do for you?”

“I was wondering if I could steal a moment of your time,” she said politely. “It’s been so long since the last time we had a chance to chat.”

Not exactly the most subtle of openings, but it wasn’t like everyone else hadn’t been pairing off for odd negotiations over the last day or so. Where else in the galaxy could you see an Imperial agent asking to speak to a disgraced SIS operative and think of it as one of the more _sensible_ partnerships in attendance? At least the two of them had the benefit of having a prior working relationship to legitimise her pulling him away. 

He smiled wanly at her. “By all means,” he said, slapping Bobbi on the knee as he rose to his feet; she slapped him on the ass in response. 

Thessa nodded to him as he fell into step beside her, leading him away from the busy hall and out towards the platform where the _Phantom_ was berthed. She didn’t say a word, and after a moment the silence began to gnaw at him. “Haven’t seen Temple with you on this trip,” he said conversationally, stuffing his hands into his pockets so that he didn’t fidget. 

She didn’t even blink. “She’s working directly with my employer,” she said, with the forced sort of flatness that implied she had a lot more she wanted to say, but had taught herself to contain the hostility. “We both decided it was far safer for her.”

He had a feeling it was definitely _not_ something that had been agreed upon happily by all parties- he remembered the enthusiastically chipper young agent-in-training and the way she’d followed Thessa around with stars in her eyes. Raina had been a decent sort, but the Imperial zeal had been a bit much to stomach sometimes; for her to willingly leave the opportunities she had with Sith Intelligence to work for what was ostensibly a private organisation, regardless of the Imperial sympathies of her branch of the organisation, was not entirely right in his mind. There was something much deeper going on there, but he didn’t want to push at what seemed to be an open wound. 

Instead he cleared his throat. “You look tired,” he said, attempting a different tact. 

“I _am_ tired,” she said bluntly. “Perhaps if you had spent the last several months trying to infiltrate a previously uncontacted alien civilisation, only to be pursued relentlessly for months after that, and then to be exiled from your home under pain of death, you would look tired as well.”

_Ouch._

Granted, they’d never been particularly close even after living undercover together on Rishi for months, but there was a bitterness to her now that had blossomed and flourished in the interim, something he’d seen hints of before that now held her fully in its grasp. It seemed like a terrible shame, a waste of a good individual with a good heart- but that was Intelligence work for you. They made the sacrifices that others couldn’t. 

Thessa led him up the ramp to the ship, pressing her hand to the entry pad for it to scan her prints. 

“I can’t tell you how grateful I am,” he said quietly, hesitantly. “For Ona’la, I mean. It’s just... I don’t even know how you managed it, but I’m so grateful you brought her back.”

The door hissed open in front of them, letting out a surge of almost icy cold air. “I don’t want to talk about it,” Thessa said just as quietly.

“You could have asked me to help. Or, kriff, if you were gonna cop so much flack for it, I would’ve done it, if you’d told-”

“I _said_ , I don’t want to talk about it,” she repeated, her voice a little harder this time. He’d never been aboard a _Phantom_ before, though he’d seen the schematics for them back in the day; the reality was far more impressive than the rather technical data files could ever convey. It was sleek and almost spotlessly clean, the white interior very elegantly modern. He could admit it, thinking about the rustbuckets he’d flown in his time with the SIS, he was definitely jealous. Imperial Intelligence clearly didn’t spare any expense when it came to outfitting their operatives. 

Maybe Thake had a ship like this too.

... he probably just had the _Chandelier_. Ugh, even _thinking_ the name made him want to scowl and blush-

“We were asked to report in before the end of a full rotation,” she said, dragging him out of his vaguely envious thoughts as she led him into the central chamber. There were assorted pieces of scientific equipment, sensors or monitors or something, piled up around the walls of the room, and most of it clearly well-loved and used to excess. He knew her background was in biochemical something-or-other, but he didn’t quite get what it was she did, seeing as how she seemed to do... well, _everything_. “I managed to contact my team, but you’re overdue.”

Nice of someone to tell him that. “That’s par the course for me,” he said easily. “Anyone expecting anything different from me is gonna be in for a rude shock.” 

She breathed out slowly, her lips pursed in disapproval. “And they wonder how I infiltrated the SIS so easily.” 

“Hey, that’s mean.”

“I’ll take whatever opportunities presented to me, Theron,” she said, keying something into the communicator in the centre of the room. 

There was a low sounding buzz as it attempted to connect across the vast distances, irritating enough to have him drumming his fingers on the circular frame of the communicator. Thessa scowled at him as she cleaned up the signal, and he fought the urge to poke his tongue out at her. Finally, after a moment, there was a very clear click and the image abruptly solidified in the air above them. 

On the holoprojector, two figures appeared, looking to all intents and purposes like two sides of the same coin. Both older gentlemen, both silver-haired and well-lived if the lines on their face were anything to go by, but that was where the similarities ended. Ardun was broad shouldered and round faced, his stance wide as he clasped his hands behind his back and smiled warmly at them. Keeper, or Minister, or whatever he wanted to call himself these days, was narrow and angular, his face almost hawkish and his expression far more terse. 

“Ardun.”

“James.”

Well, okay, that answered that question fairly conclusively. 

The ex-Minister for Intelligence smiled thinly, nothing warm in the expression. “How’s the Republic treating you? Saresh breathing down your neck?”

Ardun’s smile didn’t even falter. “About as well as can be expected, given the circumstances,” he said mildly, very pointedly not answering. “How’s the family? Sith still chasing after your daughter’s skirts?” 

“None of your business, as always.”

“So that’s a yes? Tell me at least that she got a marriage proposal out of the deal.”

Theron leaned across to Thessa. “Do they hate each other or are they best friends?” he asked in a stage whisper.

Both of them turned to stare at him rather fiercely, and Thessa was disgracefully unhelpful, hands clasped behind her back as she stared forward. “Something on your mind, agent?” Ardun asked pleasantly, the sort of benign expression on his face that he recognised from Ona’la- _and_ his mother, he realised. Maybe it was a Jedi thing, being able to express irritation and anger with a polite smile. 

He shook his head with a shrug. “Nope,” he said, drawling the sound out pointlessly. 

“I assume we have a limited amount of time before the Lord Wrath realises you are broadcasting, so I’d suggest we move along,” Keeper- or, well, James- said. 

“We have three minutes and fourteen seconds,” Thessa said immediately, as if prompted. “Her primary facilities were damaged prior to our arrival, but she was aware of guests carrying concealed tracking technology without explaining how she knew. It’s possible she has other means of monitoring that I’ve not been able to counter.” 

Theron gritted his teeth at the reminder of his folly with the tracking bug.

“Very well. Report.” 

Thessa ran rapidly through the events of the last two days, with Theron interjecting where he could- although admittedly, she was far better at summarising it than he was, so his additions were mostly related to conversations he’d had without her present. Hearing her lay it out flat, he had to admit, it seemed a lot more succinct than he’d realised; maybe this rambling gathering of souls was more effective than he’d thought. 

Maybe he’d just been a bit too preoccupied with bruised friendships and awkward lust. 

Ardun was stroking his chin thoughtfully. “So the premise for her concerns is that she believes this war to be another attempt by the Sith Emperor to trigger his dark ritual,” he said.

“In a sense, yes sir,” Thessa said. “The original ritual, as I understand it, was far more structured, whereas this- like the war with the Revanites and the destruction of Ziost- is more of a general power grab.”

“And not in the political sense of a power grab,” Theron quipped. “Although, actually, I suppose destabilising numerous governments does count as-” 

“If the Wrath is correct- and I believe she is,” Thessa continued, apparently unmoved by his attempts at humour, “then it’s in our best interest to discourage all attempts to engage Zakuul. If conflict feeds Vitiate, then we must cut off the source of his nourishment.” 

“It’s doable,” James said at the exact same time that Ardun said “Impossible.”

Theron sighed. 

“And here I was thinking the pride of the Sith was insurmountable,” James said wryly, more than a little mockery in his tone as he addressed Ardun. “You mean to tell me the mighty Republic has too much _pride_ to think of the wellbeing of its citizens?”

“Two minutes remaining,” Thessa murmured quietly. 

“Saresh made a statement two days ago dismissing Emperor Arcann’s threat of invasion,” Ardun said, “which you well _know_ , James. She was also able to swing a majority vote that denied the request to reallocate any of the fleets or any troop divisions to counter Zakuul, claiming that any weakening along the front with the Empire would be immediately exploited. Given that Zakuul has yet to strike at any significant Republic target, while the Imperials have repeatedly struck out at Core Worlds, it was not difficult for her to sway public opinion on the matter.” He smiled thinly, the blue flicker in the static not diminishing how patronising he looked. “But I suppose you mean to tell me that it will be nothing extraordinary for you to convince the Dark Council to kneel?” 

James waved a hand irritably. “The Dark Council is composed of cowards and children,” he said dismissively. “Any chance for pretending at legitimacy died with Marr and Nox. I can speak to a few contacts I have in the various ministries, and the government at least- if not the Sith- will kneel.”

“It’s not like kneeling to an Emperor is a foreign concept for them, right?” Theron said. 

“Are you _actually_ capable of speaking without being sarcastic?” Thessa asked, with a look on her face that suggested she was about two seconds away from slapping him on the back of the head. 

“Regardless,” Ardun said, turning attention back to the conversation at hand, “Saresh has vastly unsettled the fringe factions in the Senate, and a lot of the Outer and Mid Rim systems are faced with the prospect of facing down Zakuul’s fleets without reinforcements, and while the Core Worlds have a louder voice for now, that power bloc won’t hold forever.” 

“The Wrath made the suggestion that we need to bring one of the more influential factions over to our way of thinking,” Theron said, “and she specifically mentioned the Rift Alliance.” 

“Lady Alauni, the current spokesperson for the Rift Alliance, has made it abundantly clear that her loyalties lie with Saresh,” Ardun said, with an unpleasant twist to his lips.

“Has she? She seems to be abundantly prickly and set on her own agenda, to be honest, and her system is at early risk of being threatened by Zakuul. If anything, I would’ve thought she’d be inclined to be _more_ critical of Saresh’s stance.”

Thessa cleared her throat. “She and Saresh are... involved,” she said quietly. 

Theron blinked. “I- what? This is the first I’m hearing about it-”

That seemed to anger her, if the way her jaw clenched was a good indicator. “And surprisingly, you are not the be all and end all of Republic intelligence, Theron,” she said. “The Senator for Saleucami is not the weak link in the Rift Alliance any longer. And one minute remaining.”

“Our best chances lie with Master Dawnstar, and the President of Balmorra,” Ardun said. “If Master Dawnstar can be convinced of the threat, she will have the most influence over Cordan and his control over the factories. The Republic won’t stand a chance if we can limit their supply of war droids.” 

“I will leave that endeavour in your hands, Ardun,” James said, clearly looking to wind down the conversation. “I’m sure manipulating the emotions of a fellow Jedi is well within your capabilities, after all the practice you’ve had on regular citizens.” 

At his side, Thessa stiffened as if she’d been slapped, and even through the static he could tell that Ardun had gone almost unpleasantly still. 

“In the meantime,” he continued, “I will follow up whatever contacts I can in the various ministries, and perhaps look into our cold case for Jadus’ whereabouts.”

Theron wasn’t a Jedi, but every now and then he had little moments that didn’t feel like the sort of thing normal folk should’ve been privy too; he chalked it up to the years of training he’d done before the Jedi had thrown their hands up in despair and given up on him, that sometimes habit kicked in and something that felt sort of like a sixth sense reared its’ ugly head within him. Sometimes that meant avoiding danger when there wasn’t any noticeable signs of a threat, sometimes that meant knowing which way a target had travelled without checking his radar...

And sometimes it meant grunting in surprise when he felt the staggering wave of hate and fear that surged out of Thessa at the mention of the renegade Sith Lord. “Thess?” he murmured, putting a hand on her elbow.

The sense of her fury and her terror was so much stronger with physical contact, and he had to grit his teeth against it. “What do you _mean_ , the cold case for Jadus?” she spat. 

On the holoprojector, James simply looked irritated, like he found her anger to be nothing more than a tantrum. “Precisely what I said, agent- that we have an open file and task force that was originally committed to tracking Jadus, but that was put on hold during the restructuring period between Imperial Intelligence and Sith Intelligence. The trail may have gone cold but-”

“What in the name of every ashen, burning hell would you want to find that _monster_ for?”

Ardun and James exchanged a look. “We don’t have a lot of options when it comes to countering Vitiate’s powers,” Ardun said gently, clearly trying to coax her round to their way of thinking, “especially not if- as you say- his other form has sired children with the same intense connection to the Force that he has.”

“I will _not_ work with Jadus,” Thessa said bluntly, “that is not open to negotiation.”

“That is not your decision, agent.”

She snarled something violent, something that Theron knew was a curse word even without understanding Cheunh; he hoped it was something particularly vile. “We are in this position to begin with because a Sith Lord felt himself to be beyond the laws of a civilised society, and that he could play with us like toys in his vast, violent playpen. Jadus was closely following in Vitiate’s footsteps, and you would seek him out to gain his _help_?”

“Jadus was one of the few in the last several thousand years who had the potential to challenge Vitiate with any chance of success,” James said, his tone curt, as if he were addressing a disobedient child. “If, as the Wrath suspects, this war is yet another ploy to invigorate him, then he is likely weakened more than he is letting on. We must take whatever advantage we can, while such advantages exist.”

“You would trade one evil for another, one tyrant for another-”

“Your opinion is noted, agent, and if that is all you have to report, I believe our time is up.” 

“Continue to monitor the assembly,” Ardun said, casting a sympathetic glance in Thessa’s direction, “and take care to note as many individual alliances that form. We weren’t aware of the Grand Champion having any connection to the Wrath, so anything like that will be vital to our understanding of how best to use this gathering to our advantage.”

Later, when he had a chance to think about it, he couldn’t even say why he said it, only that he’d had the most intensely strong urge to say it. “I think you’ll find that if you think you’re going to manipulate the Wrath and twist her goals to suit yourselves, you’re going to be sorely disappointed.”

“Duly noted,” Ardun said. “Good day, agents.”

The abrupt silence after the call ended was almost crackling with tension; Theron glanced over at Thessa, dismayed to find her expression relatively calm but her eyes closed and tears on her cheeks. “Uh...” He reached a hand forward and stopped, hovering halfway to her shoulder as he debated whether or not it was sensible to touch her. “Are- you alright?” 

She sniffed loudly, her chin dropping and her throat working as if she was trying to control herself. “I still have nightmares about him,” she said softly. “About Jadus, I mean. There’s not- I don’t really have words to explain it, but I know without a doubt that involving him would only make the situation worse.” 

“Worse than a planet eating abomination?”

She laughed softly, her face scrunched up against further tears. “Jadus was barely any more human than Vitiate was, when I knew him. In all the years he has had since then, far from supervision or any sort of obligation to decency that might still have existed had he been accountable to the Dark Council and the Emperor’s servants, stars only know what he’s had the opportunity to evolve into since then.” 

“See, I’m trying to take things seriously, but you say the word _evolve_ and all I can think of is that kids game thing with the goofy pretend aliens that you evolve to make them stronger.”

She laughed more genuinely this time, reaching up to wipe the tears away from her cheeks. “Thake plays it religiously,” she said, sniffing. “Don’t tell him I told you that.”

“Thake? Scowly, grumpy, can’t-open-his-mouth-without-insulting-you Thake? That guy plays a kids’ game with cartoon animals?” 

Thessa wiped awkwardly at her face with her sleeve. “Big words for a man who keeps actual spreadsheets to track his Fantasy Huttball teams,” she said, “but yes. He ruined an op once on Tatooine because he just _had_ to run into a pirate encampment to catch some kind of furry sand creature. Apparently it was very rare and very important.” 

“If I hadn’t seen him in the field with my own eyes I legitimately would not believe that man was an agent.”

She closed her eyes, the brief flicker of amusement in her slowly going cold again. “You should know better than to call him an agent,” she said quietly. 

With her eyes closed, she didn’t see the ruefully self-deprecating smile he made. “Yeah, well, you’d think I’d know better about a lot of things,” he said. He patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. “Come on, now,” he said softly, “it’s not all doom and gloom. There’s a lot of really good stuff that’s coming out of this conference, er... thing.” 

She smiled weakly at him. “I appreciate the sentiment, Theron, but that doesn’t outweigh the threat that Jadus poses.”

“Come on, have you seen the people hanging out here? Killing a Dark Council member seems to just about be a requirement for entry. Kriff, even I’ve managed it, so that’s not really a ringing endorsement for the infallibility of the Council.” That got another laugh from her, and he grinned in response. “I’m just saying, if you’re worried about Jadus, you’re sort of in exactly the sort of company who can swat him back down again.”

“Your optimism never ceases to amaze me.” She smoothed her hands over the front of her shirt, as if trying to flatten out imaginary wrinkles. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I just need to clean up.” 

She removed herself to a room at the front of the ship, which he presumed had to be her personal quarters, and in the meantime Theron took the opportunity to snoop a little more thoroughly around the main cabin. On the table against the far wall he found a number of datapads and glass slides, and picking up the top one caused the screen to load; he blinked at the words ‘ _ovulation record_ ’ and abruptly put it down again, face burning. Turning instead to the gear scattered about, he recognised at least one of the pieces of equipment as an industrial microscope, although wondering what in the stars you’d ever need a microscope that big for gave him the creeps; discreetly scanning a suspicious looking device revealed it to be nothing more sinister than a centrifuge, and he was reading the uses for it on his wrist screen when Thessa reemerged. 

“Separating liquids at high speed,” he mused, “I’m pretty sure there’s a carnival on Nar Shaddaa where the rides work on the same principle.” 

Thessa threw her hands up as if in disgust. “What is it with you and Thake and carnivals?” she asked in exasperation. 

_What...?_ “Uhh-”

“That was a rhetorical question, I absolutely do not want an answer. And is there a reason you’re poking through my equipment?” 

He grinned at her. “Call it professional curiosity. I’m a spy, remember?” 

The flat look she gave him might have made lesser men cringe. “How could I ever forget?” There was no way now to tell that she’d been crying, one of the few benefits of the eerie red eyes of her race, he supposed; there was a slight puffiness to her face, if he looked particularly closely, but her features were so round and soft to start with that it honestly just could have passed as the shape of her cheeks. 

“Wait, are we doing the whole friends teasing thing right now, or is this just uh... are we being mean? As in, like, mean mean?” 

“As opposed to nice mean?” 

“... is that not a concept on Csilla?” 

She sighed. “You can get off my ship now, Theron,” she said, gesturing towards the exit. 

“Woah, hang on, hold on,” he said, putting his hands up as he tried to stall. “Aren’t we going to debrief or anything? Discuss what the big bad bosses said?” 

“We have our instructions from our respective superiors, so-”

“Yeah, about that,” he said. “I never got a chance to ask, while we were all together on Rishi, but I don’t actually understand who you work for. Or _how many_ people you work for, I should say.”

Her blank red eyes revealed nothing. “I serve the Empire,” she said mildly, with so little conviction in the statement that he actually snorted. 

“Yeah, okay, and I have a close and affectionate relationship with my mother,” he said wryly. “Come on, Thessa, if this alliance thing goes ahead, we’re gonna be working together more than normal, so level with me.”

“Why? Don’t trust me, Agent Shan?”

“Okay, enough with the agent business, we lived together on Rishi for months, so we don’t need to fall back on formalities now,” he said, raking a hand through his hair in frustration. “I’m just... trying to understand you, is all.”

“Why?”

He resisted throwing his hands in the air by the barest of margins. “Because I’m curious? What does- why do I need to have a reason?”

She blinked slowly at him; he remembered that that meant something, some subtle kind of chiss body language, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember what it was. “Forgive me, Theron, if I am suspicious of the intentions of those I work with- I have learned the hard way not to take an outreach of kindness at face value.” 

That was a depressingly familiar sentiment, to be honest; he had to wonder if his worldview would be that bleakly suspicious if he hadn’t had good people like Teff’ith and Ona’la in his life. He rubbed wearily at his face, trying to think of how best to word things. “Look, Thess,” he said, noticing the way her head cocked to the side at the shortened name, “wait, is Thess no good?” 

She visibly shook herself. “No, it’s fine, it’s...” She smiled ruefully. “It’s probably more fitting, given that I’m never going home.” 

That couldn’t _possibly_ be a good thing- clearly he’d stuffed up somehow, stepped over a boundary he shouldn’t have. “If it’s no good, I can-”

“Theron, it’s fine,” she said wearily. “It’s not like my name is pronounceable to humans anyway.”

Kriffin’ stars, he’d bollocksed up her name. “I take that as a challenge,” he said, bluffing his way through to confidence. “Teach me how to say it properly.” 

She immediately said something rapidly and vaguely guttural, making sounds at the back of her throat that didn’t seem to make sense in his brain. When he blinked in confusion, she cocked her head to the side again with a placid smile. “Challenge offered, Theron,” she said, her accent a little thicker than normal as she pronounced his name. 

“Uh...” _Kriff_. “Just Thessa then. How would I say that properly?”

Thessa sighed. “Humans and most other speakers of Basic assume that it’s a hard tee sound, like tree, and yet you almost get Thake’s name right even though we have exactly the same phonematic root.” 

“Uhh...” 

“Never mind. Alright, if you want to say it closer to what it’s supposed to be? Say it the same way you say your own name, use your tongue for the _th_ sound, and it’s a long _ee_ sound, not an _eh_.”

“Thee-suh?” 

She blinked slowly- he really had to look up what it meant, because Thake did it a lot too- and seemed to be holding back a sigh of frustration with great difficulty. “It’s much closer, certainly,” she said.

“Why don’t you ever say anything? We’ve been working together on and off for years now, and you’ve never corrected me before.”

For a long moment he thought she wasn’t actually going to answer him, the way she stared at him with that blank expression she’d mastered so well and that was entirely too unnerving with her bright red eyes suggesting that the topic was off limits for him. But then she softened slightly, deflating as she crossed her arms almost defensively over her chest; it was extremely vulnerable body language on her part, and her choice to let him see it was a very deliberate choice by her.

Whether it was in order to manipulate his sympathies or whether it was genuine, he couldn’t yet tell. 

“When I left the Ascendancy,” she said slowly, her chin ducked as she stared at the floor rather than him, “I learned rather quickly that humans have very little interest in the welfare of aliens, even near-human aliens, and that if anything, drawing attention to myself with things like correcting pronunciation only made things more uncomfortable for me.” She made a humourless noise, some kind of attempt at a laugh. “Don’t get me wrong, the Ascendancy is rife with xenophobic nonsense, and our culture of elitism is hardly any better than that cultivated by the sith, but suddenly I was on the receiving end of such talk and given that I was supposed to be an agent, flying under the radar and what not, constantly nagging at people to say my name right would only imprint the memory of me in their thoughts more clearly.”

“So you just didn’t say anything,” he said, nodding solemnly.

She shrugged. “I’m a different person now to the young woman who left Csilla,” she said, almost hopelessly. “Maybe I am Tess, or Tessa, now. Maybe it’s better not to cling to a life and an identity I can’t have anymore. I can’t go back to Csilla, I can’t go back to my family...” She shrugged again. “Maybe it’s your mysterious Force telling me it’s time to move on.” 

“It’s not _my_ Force, it’s not like it really talks to me either.”

Thessa didn’t answer immediately, and he thought he might have lost her again; he turned to leave, assuming she needed her space, when he heard her sigh softly. “I work for both of them,” she said quietly. “And Lana, of course.”

He turned back around, hands stuffed into his pockets. “Do they know?” he asked, figuring that to be the safest question to open with. 

“Of course they do. Well, Lana doesn’t. But Ardun and James, yes.” There was something sharper in her tone now, almost defensive, like she was expecting him to condemn her for her duplicity. “Ardun and I came to an agreement after we dismantled the Star Cabal, and some months later it came to my attention that James- who I still knew as the Minister for Intelligence at that point- had escaped from his detention on Nar Shaddaa with the assistance of-” She hesitated. “Several colleagues of mine,” she finished lamely. 

“Thake?” 

“Well. Maybe. He might have been involved, I’m not sure.”

“You know he works for Tahrin, right?” 

“I suspected as much. Or at least, that he had a benefactor somewhere, since he certainly wasn’t on Intelligence’s payroll any longer.”

Theron frowned, thinking it over. The answer, when it came to him, was so obvious that he could have slapped himself. “Raina?” he asked incredulously. 

Thessa nodded miserably. “Amongst others,” she said vaguely. “It’s... one of the reasons she works directly with him, instead of travelling with me.”

That was such a loaded statement, but where could he even start to unpack everything she wasn’t saying with those words? “So how can you possibly justify working for three different factions, even when two of them know about the others? How do you possibly balance that?”

“That’s not your concern.”

“It sort of is, though? If we’re working together, how do I know you’re giving me the right intel, when I know you’ve got loyalties in other places?”

She blinked slowly at him. “You don’t,” she said simply. “That’s the nature of being a spy.” 

“But how do you do it? Let’s say you get-”

Thessa made a noise of frustration. “Let’s not say I get _anything_ , Theron. If I have information that will save more people in the hands of the Republic, I send it first to Ardun. If I have information that the Empire is better placed to address, I send it to James. If I have something that requires a heavier touch, I tell Lana and involve the Sith.” 

“So, what, I’m just supposed to trust that you’ve got the same moral compass as me and aren’t gonna fuck me over eventually.”

She smiled sadly, and for some reason it made his skin crawl to see it. “You _can’t_ trust me, Theron,” she said quietly. “That’s exactly the problem.”

____

“Tahrin?”

Ona’la braced herself as Lord Dara glanced up from where she was feeding one of the twins; she had a blanket draped over her from her shoulder to shield the babe from view, but it was still a rather intimate moment she was intruding on, regardless. She could only hope that Tahrin wasn’t fussed about such things, given that she knew that a great number of powerful women- from both the Republic and the Empire- found the concept unappealing and turned to a wet nurse for convenience. 

But to her great relief, Tahrin only nodded in greeting. “Ona’la,” she said quietly, her hand absently patting the lump beneath the blanket as the child nursed from her, “what can I do for you?”

Biting her lip, Ona’la sank down onto the far end on the couch, trying not to make too much noise. “I apologise for disrupting you here,” she said to start. “I realise this is probably a private moment for you-”

Tahrin waved a hand awkwardly, rebalancing the lump when it wriggled slightly, legs kicking out from beneath the blanket. “It’s fine,” she said. “If I tried to organise my affairs in the brief window of free time they allowed me, I’d never get anything done. It’s much easier to work around them.”

Glancing around so that she didn’t stare like a smitten idiot at the sight of those tiny brown toes, Ona’la cleared her throat. “You’ve made a lovely room for them,” she said conversationally. 

Tahrin chuckled softly- _actually_ chuckled, the sound soft and genuine and completely startling. “I hardly think you came down to the nursery to tell me you admire the interior design,” she said, “which- by the way- I cannot claim responsibility for in the slightest, I gave Jaesa and Vette complete free rein with the decorations.”

Ona’la only had vague memories of the quiet young teen on Tython who had eventually defected to the Sith- and how peculiar it was, that Tahrin had been the one to take her in, a Sith with a Jedi apprentice, while she herself had been left to guide Kira’s final steps to Knighthood, a Jedi with a Sith padawan. “Are they well?” 

“Last I heard, they were planning a wedding,” Tahrin said with genuine fondness. “So I imagine that counts as ‘ _well_ ’ by most definitions.”

Ona’la clasped her hands together in her lap. “It certainly does,” she said hesitantly. “I wonder... I’m not quite sure how to ask this, but I didn’t want to discuss it in public...”

Tahrin’s eyebrows went up. “Oh?” she asked.

“It’s about Thexan.”

“If you are attempting to ask me for his hand in marriage, I think he’d rather object to the notion that I have any say in the matter.”

Ona’la nearly choked on her own tongue. “I- _what?_ ” she spluttered, even as her treacherous heart lurched into her throat at even the mere suggestion of it. “No, I don’t- of course not! Where would you even _get_ such an idea?”

Tahrin’s expression was unreadable. “You segued directly from news of a wedding into needing to ask something about Thexan in private,” she said. “Am I mistaken?”

She gaped at her, her heart pounding in her chest, until she finally got a hold of herself enough to weakly say “You’re joking?”

“Indeed I am. Vette tries to encourage me to engage in humour- she believes it to be beneficial to my development.” 

Ona’la blinked at her, because she couldn't even tell if that was a joke either. And to be honest, her brain hadn’t quite moved past the image of Thexan adorned in traditional twi’leki wedding attire, or dressed in the black and gold finery of his princely armour. “I, um...” She shook her head, trying to settle herself again. “I actually wanted to ask you about Imperial or independent medical providers,” she said finally. “I asked repeatedly to have Thexan seen to by trauma specialists while he was in Republic custody, and I don’t know whether it was simply negligence on the part of the administration or whether Saresh was deliberately blocking me, but...”

“But you do not trust them to treat him adequately.”

“That’s not it,” Ona’la said in weak protest, feeling rude for dismissing the work of the Medical Corps of the Republic’s armed forces so quickly. “Well, not entirely it. I don’t doubt that they’d treat him to the best of their abilities, I just...” She swallowed uneasily. “I don’t know that I trust Saresh and other like-minded factions not to sabotage his treatment, either by limiting his access to specialists under some flimsy legal pretense for prisoners-of-war, or by exposing his medical records and using that information to slander him.” 

Tahrin glanced down at the covered bundle in her arms, murmuring something under her breath as she reached down under the blanket; it seemed a vaguely awkward thing to manage one handed, but after a moment she pulled the blanket away, having apparently readjusted her tunic and her child with relative ease. She stood up- and to Ona’la’s abrupt surprise, stepped towards her instead of towards the twin cribs. “They like to sleep together in the afternoons,” Tahrin explained, handing her the child without so much as blinking. Staring down at the drowsy little face in her arms, it took Ona’la a few seconds to remember the baby’s name- Vaane, this was Vaane, and she definitely had to try and hold onto her wits for more than half a minute, because this was just getting embarrassing. “I’ll feed Connie and then put them in together.” 

She fetched her daughter from the crib, who was chattering softly to herself as her mother took her into her arms, settling back down on the couch and draping the blanket back over herself to feed her. Somewhat dumbstruck by this turn of events- one of the most powerful Force users in the galaxy was feeding her children and trusted her to hold one of them in what had to be an extraordinarily vulnerable moment- it took Ona’la far longer than it should have to get her thoughts in order. “I heard Gabriel complaining yesterday that you don’t ever call her Connie,” she said softly, for want of anything else to say. 

Shifting to find a more comfortable position as Connie settled in with gusto, if the noises were anything to go by, Tahrin’s lips twitched. “What Gabriel doesn’t know can only serve as a source of amusement for me,” she said. “As for Thexan, while I understand the concerns you have, I cannot in good conscience recommend an Imperial facility for him. Please understand that while I recognise the threat posed to him by Republic bureaucracy, I am intimately familiar with the sort of treatment he would be exposed to under the Empire, and I...” 

She trailed to a halt, and given how little her expression changed, it took Ona’la a moment to realise she was in distress. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly, “I didn’t mean-”

“It’s alright,” Tahrin said, rather firmly; her features were harder than they had been a moment ago, and it made Ona’la’s heart sink. “The Empire is unabashed in their enthusiasm for eugenics and very literal torture, and as the victim of such attentions for the entirety of my life, I will in no way condone it for another.”

Vaane, perhaps picking up on his mother’s distress on a more instinctive level, fussed slightly in her arms, and Ona’la rocked him until he settled back towards sleep. “I had hoped there might be facilities that took a more neutral stance,” she said awkwardly.

“Oh, they certainly exist, absolutely. But not for a man like Thexan- as Valkorion’s son, they would see it as nothing more than an opportunity to strike deep at the heart of a new enemy.”

“But what about their hippocratic oaths?” 

Tahrin looked like she might have rolled her eyes at her, if she were the sort to indulge in that sort of thing. “The safety and security of the Empire overrules any need for patient confidentiality or comfort,” she said. “All glory to the Emperor, and what not.” 

“Lady Wrath-cakes, I don’t believe my fucking ears, you weren’t being _sarcastic_ just now, were you?”

They both shifted slightly, turning to face towards the door; Ysaine was leaning against the wall, arms crossed over her chest and one ankle hooked around the other, looking far too comfortably settled for Ona’la’s peace of mind.

Apparently Tahrin had the same thought. “How long were you listening, Ysaine?” she asked, her tone cool. 

Ysaine shrugged, pushing off the wall with a grunt. “Long enough,” she said. 

Ona’la’s opinion towards the woman had warmed significantly after their brief chat that morning, but her cavalier attitude towards eavesdropping on a private conversation certainly soured it again quickly. “I’m afraid we’re not looking for public opinion on-”

“You’re looking for doctors,” Ysaine said bluntly, dropping to a crouch in front of them so that she wasn’t towering over them. “Specifically, you’re looking off the grid, or for people who can be trusted not to run off to the higher ups. I can help.” 

“That was not an invitation for you to join us, Ysaine,” Tahrin said, her eyes glittering like ice. 

Ysaine waved a hand dismissively in her direction. “Cool the indomitable sith act, sweetheart, you’re like four feet too short for that to mean much to me,” she said in amusement. “Look, I wasn’t looking to spy, I came down to see the niblings, right? Gabe said I could play with ‘em as long as they weren’t napping. I came down, the two of you were talking, door’s open and shit, I heard things.” 

“And I’ll thank you not to repeat-”

“I’m a doctor,” Ysaine said, as casually as if she’d just told them what she’d had for breakfast. “If you need that boy of yours seen by people who aren’t gonna talk, I’ve got connections.”

Her words were met with stunned silence, and Ona’la was relieved at least that Tahrin seemed to be just as shocked at the news as she was- especially given that the two of them seemed to be related through the soldier Gabriel. When neither Tahrin or Ona’la said anything, Ysaine continued. “The University of Commenor has a medical school, I’m still on good terms with some of the docs who teach there. They’ve got a pretty prestigious psych school as well, and they’ve been developing some pretty good therapy techniques working with ‘pub soldiers coming back from the front. They do a lot of work on post-traumatic stress and dissociative disorders, that sort of stuff. I can pull a few strings, see if I can’t get someone to talk to you about your princeling.” 

The woman who was allegedly the most dangerous bounty hunter in the galaxy was a doctor. A _doctor_.

When neither of them answered yet again, Ysaine’s smile faltered slightly. “What?” she asked irritably, although her cheeks were flushed as if she was embarrassed.

“You’re a doctor?” Tahrin asked mildly, her lip twitching as if she wanted to smile. At least Ona’la wasn’t the only one stunned by that revelation. 

“Yes? Why is everyone always so surprised by that? So I’m a bounty hunter as well, big fucking deal, I do the work that interests me.”

“Commenor is a Republic aligned planet,” Ona’la said, with some confusion. It was better than just dumbly repeating Tahrin’s confusion at the obvious, even if that was foremost in her mind.

“What is this, twenty questions? Yes, it’s a Republic aligned planet, and yes, it’s a Republic aligned university, and yes, I trained as a doctor there. Just General Medicine, mind, I didn’t specialise in anything because it was fucking hard enough just getting through the general degree.” 

Tahrin had her head ever so slightly cocked to the side. “This is the first I’ve ever heard of it,” she said, clearly bemused by this revelation. Given how obsessively she liked to be in control of things, Ona’la couldn’t say she was at all surprised that the news might startle her. “Does Gabriel know?”

Ysaine rolled her eyes. “I don’t fucking well share everything with him,” she said pointedly. 

“There’s a difference between ‘ _I had steak for dinner last Tuesday_ ’ and ‘ _I spent several years studying medicine at one of the most prestigious academies in the known galaxy_ ’.”

“Look sunshine, it took me two years to remember to tell him I’d gotten married, we’re not big on communication in our family.” She rubbed at her jaw. “I mean, first things first- is your boy on board with this? This ain’t nothing you’re trying to do behind his back, get him committed or some shit, right? Cause that don’t ride with me.”

Her concern was remarkably touching. “Thexan and I have had a few discussions about getting him help, but nothing definitive,” she said quietly. “I wasn’t looking to decide anything without his input, I just... wanted to know what our options were.” 

“Where is he right now? He up to talking?”

“He’s asleep,” Ona’la said, her stomach fluttering unhappily. “He had a bad turn earlier, a panic attack, and he needed space away from the crowds. Once he was calmer I convinced him to clean up and rest for a time.” 

“Do you need me to send over one of the medical droids?” Tahrin asked solemnly. “I’m sure at the very least they’d be able to offer a sedative to help him sleep.”

Ysaine reached over and very firmly swatted her on the knee. “There’s only one trained doctor in this room, and it ain’t you sweetheart, so don’t go offering drugs to these wayward little princes you wanna go adopting.” 

The room very abruptly became colder, and in her arms Vaane suddenly stirred again, grumbling as he struggled; again, he was clearly picking up on his mother’s temper. “Don’t touch me like that again, Pierce,” Tahrin said with deceptive calm. 

She took her hand away, lifting them as if in mock surrender. “Look, if he’s willing to talk to me briefly, I can write up a letter of recommendation which’ll help keep it all official, if you’re worried about it being dodgy at all. Commenor is Republic, yeah, but it’s got a good history of looking the other way when it comes to certain things, and there’s a strong anti-war sentiment on the campus itself. His visits will stay completely confidential, no one will know he’s there.” 

Ona’la bit her lip, considering. “I suppose it’s not really up to me,” she said eventually, even if she desperately wanted to give it the go ahead. She honestly couldn’t say if it was too far outside of Thexan’s comfort zone or not, whether he’d respond with fear and aggression at even the suggestion of it all.

All she knew was that she wanted him to be happy, and she wanted him to feel safe, goddess preserve her, with everything in her she wanted him to know he was safe because-

She blinked. 

_Because she loved him._

Ysaine shrugged, unaware of the enormity of the personal revelation she’d just undertaken. “Tell him he can talk to me when he’s ready,” she said.


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for extensive references to child abuse, off-screen death, chronic pain and established injuries to arm, eye and throat area

Waking up to someone trailing their fingers down his stomach with clear intent was a new experience- and as his adrenalin spiked wildly at the unfamiliar touch, jarring him badly from his restless sleep, Arcann had to say he definitely did _not_ like it. With a panicked grunt that would probably have been humiliating had he been more awake to think about it, he jerked backwards, legs kicking out at his assailant even as his cybernetic hand whipped upwards to snare them around the wrist, metal fingers sinking deep into soft skin until he could feel bone beneath them.

The owner of the hand howled in pain, trailing off to a whimper when he tightened his grip. Breathing hard, teeth gritted beneath his mask, Arcann stared down at the young man in his bed, naked and terrified.

“Your Majesty, I- please, you’re hurting me-”

It was coming back to him now. The elaborate dinner to celebrate the annexation of eighteen hundred systems in a single rotation- mostly unaffiliated, empty systems scattered throughout Wild Space-, the heady wines and the dancers and the Zakuulan nobles falling all over themselves to praise him and garner his attention. Men and women and strikingly attractive individuals who eschewed to neither, all of them vying for him to notice them. The young man, the son of an Exarch, sitting boldly beside him, drunk on lust and bravado and eager to impress him in whatever way possible. 

He was amazingly good with his mouth. Arcann didn’t have a clue what his name was. 

But he’d touched him with the sort of soft intimacy that he supposed was intended to renew their enthusiastic fucking from the night before, and instead filled him with panicked dread at the softness of it. He couldn’t _do_ gentle- gentle was so far outside of his realm of experience as to be something alien and terrifying.

He released his wrist with a final warning squeeze. “Get out,” he snarled, furious almost to the point of blind rage at the way he could feel himself shaking. The adrenalin burned through him, the fight-or-flight instinct teetering between one and the other.

“But, Your Majesty, I didn’t mean-”

“ _I said get out!_ ” he roared, the room rattling in response to his anger. 

He didn’t watch to make sure that he left, instead turning his back on him- stupid, to be sure, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, trembling violently as he dropped his head into his hands. 

He didn’t cry, but he did debate for several long minutes whether or not he needed to take the mask off in order to throw up. The room was silent but for the mechanical rasp of his breathing, loud and crackling through the filters in the mouthpiece. It was still late, he could tell- dawn was still hours away, The Spire still cloaked in darkness as Zakuul spun slowly around their sun.

No one came in to check on him- most of the time that was what he preferred. He’d given explicit instructions to the servants and slaves upon his ascension to the throne, about his express need for privacy. To begin with it had been a novelty, knowing that he was truly alone and free of his father’s oppressive gaze for the first time in his life, knowing that the silence was his to enjoy and indulge in however he chose. They would certainly have ushered away the young man as he’d fled, wrapping him in a spare robe before hurrying him out of sight and out of mind, but they knew better than to enter his chambers uninvited. 

Right now he couldn’t help but curse himself for that, because all he wanted was for one fucking person to acknowledge him, one single person to recognise that he was there and he was hurting and that he wasn’t so agonisingly, excruciatingly alone. 

The touch on his stomach... even thinking about it again made his skin crawl and his belly roil until he was nauseous, and he reached up with shaking hand for the clasp at the back of his neck. There was a hiss as the seals disengaged, and then he gasped at the change of pressure against his skin, peeling the mask away with something akin to a shudder of relief. It stung, the cool night air on his ruined face, and he stretched his jaw from side to side, revelling in the brief window of freedom even as the new range of movements sent pain shooting down his neck and up through his skull. 

The pain was nice, because it distracted him from the lingering misery caused by the unwanted touch. It gave him focus. And it was nice, just for a moment, to breathe normally, to be free of the metal wrapped around his face and his skull like some monstrous mockery of a crown. 

He could cope with sex. He quite enjoyed sex. More so, he enjoyed the fact that he could bed as many people as he wanted, of whichever gender he happened to fancy, as many times as he wanted, and there was no one who could judge him or glare at him in disappointment and disapproval. There was no one who could control what went on in the privacy of his bedchamber, no one who could control _him_. The sex was pleasurable but the fact that he was in control?

That was the biggest thrill for him. 

He’d been like a child left unattended in a sweets store to begin with, drowning his grief over the loss of Thexan in his glee at the death of their father. He’d tried not to think about whether or not his brother would have approved of his behaviour and instead had done everything he’d ever wanted to do and had been previously denied by their father. He’d been nothing more than a dog on a leash, and now that the master was dead, he’d been near to rabid with his freedoms. 

Sex was one of them. He liked sex. What he didn’t like was intimacy, the presumption that the people he took to his bed had any claim to his time or his attention once he was satisfied. His skin crawled anew with the memory of the young man’s fingers tracing teasingly over his belly, and his stomach lurched in panic at the phantom touch. He liked mindless fucking, liked the sweat and the cursing and the screams, but softer touches? Lying vulnerable and sluggish while someone asked coyly why he didn’t remove the mask so they could kiss him? 

He shuddered again, running his hands over the back of his head and hanging there, fingers laced together at the back of his neck as he waited for the nausea to settle. 

He couldn’t be weak, he couldn’t be soft, he couldn’t have a single vulnerable moment because he knew better by now, he knew after a lifetime that to be vulnerable was to be punished, that to be soft was to be hurt. If he’d stumbled in his training, his father had never let the golden armoured knights give him reprieve, and he’d been ruthlessly beaten to within an inch of his life more times than he could count. If he’d struggled during his lessons, he’d been humiliated and mocked, and when Thexan tried to help him it had only gone badly for both of them. 

If he’d been foolish enough to care for someone, he had to watch as they died in his arms. Dead by his own actions. His own anger and folly and hate was so uncontrollable that it had killed the only person in the entire fucking galaxy who meant anything to him. 

He couldn’t be soft, because there was not enough left in him to survive softness.

Eventually the shaking stopped, the adrenalin bleeding away until his pulse settled to a normal rate again; the sweat on his skin felt freezing, and he reached behind him for the sheets, pulling them off the bed to rub away the worst of it. The fabric stank of sex when he held it up to his aching face, and he scowled and threw it back over his shoulder. 

As much as his head ached from the lack of sleep, he knew he wasn’t going to relax in bed any time soon; with a grunt of effort he climbed to his feet, waiting a moment for his head to stop spinning. His cheek and throat felt raw, sensitive- like the injury was still fresh and the burn was still settling into his flesh for the first time. 

He made his way through the opulent suite of rooms, his footsteps echoing desolately back at him from the empty halls; the refresher was far larger than necessary for a single person, with steam rooms and ice baths and an entire surgical theatre for the odd occasion when he needed work done on his prosthetic limb and the enflamed scarring. But he was an emperor, soon to be lord of all the known galaxy, and there was no such thing as necessities- he desired it, and so it was his. He wanted it, and it was there. Necessities were a concern for lesser beings than he. 

He avoided the baths, because he didn’t fancy sitting and stewing in his own self loathing anymore than he already was, instead letting himself into the shower cubicle. It couldn’t sensibly be called a cubicle, given that it was larger than his bed twice over, with numerous faucets and valves to release different temperatures and pressures as it pleased him. 

Nothing pleased him at the moment- he turned on the first tap within reach and slumped down into the waiting seat, his head falling back against the wall as he let the water shower down over him. The heat stung the scars along his torso, especially the withered, puckered skin around his shoulder joint, but he ignored it. It was nice to just be alone for a time, alone and quite literally naked, with not even the mask to shield him from the world. Every ruined, ugly inch of him was bared to the eye, the remains of the man he’d once been when he was still desperate to garner his father’s love and approval. 

That man had been terminally injured on the killing fields of Korriban, and what little life still flickered helplessly in him had been snuffed out when Thexan had died by his own hand.

There was never a day when he didn’t think about it, that crushing, horrifying moment when the spark within him that had been Thexan’s presence had been so abruptly put out. He’d never considered it overly, because it had always just been a fact of life- Thexan was _there_ , both physically beside him and emotionally upholding him, a constant presence through the Force that never left his side. He’d taken it for granted, that presence; he’d never thought to wonder what it would be like to live without it burning bright within him. 

He replayed it over and over and over in his head, the pain and the shock and the grief and the panic; that the one person who was true and constant and good in his life should leave him so abruptly, when he was hurting so badly and so very lost and frustrated... it was almost unbearable most days. He’d defeated father with the Outlander’s help, this mere Sith Lord who was _nothing_ compared to the glory of their Empire, and so it stood to reason that if Thexan had trusted him and if Thexan had sided with him that they could have slain Valkorion that day. They could have taken the throne as twin conquerors in truth, brothers destined to rule and to fight together as one, as two sides of the same coin. 

But Thexan had chosen their father. Whether he’d done it because he was still more loyal to the father who despised and mocked them than he was to his own brother, or whether he’d done it because he didn’t yet believe they were strong enough to defeat him together... it didn’t matter. Thexan had chosen their father instead of him.

Thexan had made his choice, and in doing so, had abandoned him. 

He didn’t notice he was crying at first until his left eye began to sting, and even then there were no ugly sobs or gasped bouts of weeping. Just the silent, angry tears as he grieved for the brother who had betrayed him and abandoned him, the brother who hadn’t trusted him enough to fight with him to the end. 

He didn’t bother wiping the tears away, just sat sullenly beneath the spray as he let the emotions roil and seethe within him. By the time the fingers on his right arm were beginning to wrinkle, he had established a modicum of calm again. He dunked his head under the spray, gritting his teeth against the surge of pain that came from his burned skin at the pressure from the water, and aggressively scrubbed his face clean with his good hand; he was slightly more gentle with his bad eye, already stinging from the tears. 

He could still see different light sources, formless grey and black shapes that merged into one another like fog and shadows; it was easier with the mask on, with the implants that could feed him the data his ruined eye could no longer process. He held his cybernetic hand out in front of him, blinking as he tried to focus on it; if he concentrated, he could possibly see the fainter smudged outline of where it was, a slightly darker blob of grey against the darkness. 

Father always demanded perfection. No wonder he hadn’t been able to defeat him alone, given that he had never met his impossible standards of perfection even when he’d been physically whole. Now that he was scarred and withered and-

He shook himself violently, scowling as he reached to turn off the water. It didn’t matter what he was now, because he was alive and his father was not. He had succeeded and his father had perished because he had outsmarted him and bettered him. 

He was _better_ than Valkorion, the God-Killer, and no one would ever be allowed to forget it.

Alone and very much awake with hours to go until dawn, he towelled himself dry unenthusiastically, his skin still damp as he tugged on a pair of pants to cover his nudity; he didn’t bother with the clasps, leaving them slung low on his hips as he slunk barefoot back into the main room again. There were platters of food still set out on the tables, succulent treats and nibbles that wouldn’t spoil when left out in the open. There were drinks as well, some of which sat upon chilling coils designed to keep them icy cold for his satisfaction. 

He hadn’t really eaten a great deal at last night’s banquet, given that he refused to take his mask off in the company of others, so he slumped down into a seat at the empty table, picking at the offerings half-heartedly. Eating was a struggle, most days, a combination of the pain and the stress making his stomach fight him with every bite he took; some days he pushed it to the limit, foregoing food until he was light-headed from the lack. Chewing _hurt_ , and he was just petulant enough to prefer to sulk about it than endure the pain and force down a sensible meal most days. 

Grimacing at the immediate spike of pain in the left side of his face, he made an effort to pick out the softer food items on display, the cheeses and fruits and the like. Activating a switch on the underside of the table, the glossy black surface was abruptly illuminated from within, the elegant Zakuulan script now visible on the screen; moving his plate out of the way, he set about pulling up all of the reports from the previous few days, reading over them in more detail now that he had the time to devote himself to them. 

Time drifted by as he scribbled his notes and observations with a spare tablet pen, the user interface transcribing his rolling scrawl into more legible characters; he pulled up the galactic map often, highlighting sections of hyperspace lanes and making notes besides certain planets and crossing others out entirely. By the time they came to fetch him for the onset of the day hours later, he’d made phenomenal progress, far more sure of himself than he’d been for weeks now. 

He felt like he was in control again, and nothing could have pleased him more. 

He endured the fussing and pampering of the morning routine, staring flatly when the medics tried to chastise him gently for exposing his fragile skin to the heat of the shower, their protestations trailing off to nothing the longer he went without answering them. He nodded along with the announcements from his steward, having read most of them throughout the previous hours; when it came time to dress for the day, he felt a brief flare of panic when the brace went around his neck again, the metal constricting and claustrophobic after hours of freedom. _Like a slave collar_ , his brain offered unhelpfully, and he quashed that thought as ruthlessly as he could. 

The mask followed once the brace was in place, and he felt the suctioning pressure as it settled on his face again, vacuum sealed to preserve the flesh and prevent further injury. There was a brief flash of pain as the tiny needles stabbed into his skin, seeking out the microchip interfaces beneath; a moment later and there was a surge of sensation, as the computer interface established a neural connection with his brain and rushed to replace the data he was missing. He couldn’t precisely see out of his left eye, but the mask gave him various environmental read outs, temperature and atmospheric conditions and heat sensors and the like. He couldn’t exactly hear through his ruined left ear, but the mask gave him access to high tech audio sensors that picked up on things beyond the range of human capability and fed it directly to his brain. 

His voice was ruined from the smoke and the burning ash he’d swallowed on the battlefield in the explosion that had scarred him, and the mask provided a modulator to hide that fact. 

If anything, he was _more_ than perfect now, far greater than the ideal his father had demanded of them. He was faster, stronger, _better_ \- and he was the only one to have survived, in the end of it all. He was better than father, better than Thexan. 

That was all that mattered, in the end. He had outlasted both of them.

There was much he wanted to achieve today, and far more that he wanted to put out of mind entirely, so he had the Exarchs summoned the moment he was ready for the day. While he appreciated their input to an extent, he much preferred to use them to soak up the worst of the administrative nonsense that came from conducting a campaign on such a massive scale. Much better indeed to allocate them to each new sector as they besieged it, have them monitor the situation and the populace and make their reports to him so that he could keep track of the overall picture. 

It was about the extent of his trust in his subordinates, to be honest. 

Depending on the strength of men had been the downfall of Thexan, and their mother before them. Their mother had argued with Valkorion for the need for human knights to lead the faceless legions of the skytroopers, that no artificial intelligence could ever match the intuition and ingenuity of the human mind on the battlefield; Thexan had believed the same, and had led their warriors in their first pitiful foray into the Core Worlds. It was true that they’d humiliated the Sith and the Republic both, but what had they achieved? What had they conquered? They’d bloodied their noses and then fled with their tails between their legs, eager to have their father pat them on the head for their obedience. 

They’d claimed no planets, subdued no enemies. It had been posturing, nothing more, and it had cost Arcann his arm and Thexan his life. 

He would not make the same mistake. 

____

The war room was abuzz with activity by the time he reached it, and he felt a brief flicker of relief when a quick scan of the room revealed that Vaylin was not in attendance. The relief was just as quickly replaced by guilt that he should be thankful not to have to spend time with his sister, his last remaining family, which then morphed into anger because he was the _Emperor_ , and he would soon rule over the entirety of this damned galaxy and he didn’t have to answer to anyone and he didn’t have to feel guilty about not wanting to spend time with Vaylin and he didn’t have to feel _anything_ he didn’t want to. 

He felt eyes on him, and he looked up to find one of the Exarchs watching him carefully, a certain sullen energy to them as they stared. Arcann returned the look bluntly, even as he turned over in his head the names of the men and women who served him, trying to work out who this was to stare so-

Ah. The father of last night’s indulgence. 

His staff had made no mention of the young man when they’d come to fetch him that morning, so he assumed he’d been returned to his family without incident. He wondered whether he’d actually broken his arm, when he’d thrown him out; he wondered whether the family had been foolish enough to assume this meant some kind of elevation in their fortunes, as if one night of mindless fucking was enough to ensure their future prospects. If anything, they should have been more savvy than the average citizen about what such a night meant- precisely nothing. 

Eventually, the Exarch in question faltered under his unflinching stare, his expression turning somewhat cringing and frustrated as he bowed his head in deference and looked away. 

The surge of giddy triumph he felt was more of a rush than most orgasms he’d had in his life. 

“We have work to do,” he said to the room at large, addressing his words to no one in particular. Normally he would have allowed the time for a summary of their expansion in the last day cycle to be read aloud, for those who had not had the opportunity to acquaint themselves with the entirety of the news; today, however, was different. There was an almost anxious energy thrumming under his skin, excited and eager to get underway. He had grand plans for the day, and he wasn’t about to waste time listening to a recapping of everything he already knew. 

His generals would just have to catch up in their own time, or he would replace them for others more eager to please him.

“The Republic and the Sith have had ample time to respond to our demands for surrender, and neither have been forthcoming.” Saresh had of course made an impassioned denouncement, full of colourful rhetoric that had said little but was sure to fan the flames of patriotism; the Empire had made no statement, to all intents and purposes trying to ignore him. “It is time we teach them the folly in denying the glory of Zakuul.”

As one, the Exarchs clenched a fist over their hearts, intoning “All glory to the Eternal Empire!”

He almost scowled, the tribute far too familiar for the times he had heard it offered up to his father instead of himself, but restrained himself. No tantrums over his father’s lingering grasp on the hearts of the people. 

Not yet, anyway. 

“There are certain things that will hasten their capitulation to our rule,” he said, almost dreamily as his fingers traced the hyperspace routes over the map. 

“Your Majesty?” One of the Exarchs, an older man with a fierce scar on his face, nodded to him as if encouraging him to go on. 

He didn’t roll his eyes, because he knew better by now- too much movement of his damaged eye would leave him with splitting, agonising headaches for at least the rest of the day, if not longer. How thrilling to know they thought of him as nothing more than a pup stumbling about on new legs. “The major powers have their breaking points, and it is only a matter of applying the right sort of pressure at the right moment to have their resolve shatter like bones beneath our fists.”

“My lord, if you are unhappy with the speed with which the invasion is being conducted, I assure you, we are advancing as rapidly as we can without leaving ourselves open to counter attacks.”

“They have no strength for counter attacks,” Arcann murmured, mostly to himself. The thrill of conquering the entire galaxy- not just multiple sectors, as he had under his father’s thumb- was tempered by the knowledge that his opponents were barely strong enough to muster a defence. What good was it to stand as a master over the dead and the dying? It was no true test of his strength. “A single grain of sand can destroy a starship, if utilised correctly. Why waste ten million droids in the conquest of a single planet when the same result can be achieved with patience and cunning and minimal losses?”

There were some murmurs at his words, confused and curious; patience, he knew, was not something that most people associated with him. His father’s influence, of course, constantly demeaning him and belittling him and dismissing him until he was rubbed raw and near to cataclysmic with frustrated rage and no outlet for it. He was capable of patience, and he would prove it to the galaxy. 

One of the Exarchs- a woman he recognised by sight if not by name-, drummed her fingers on the edge of the holocommunicator, her brow furrowed in thought. “What would you have us do, my Lord? What is your desire?”

It still made a shiver of glee run through him to hear the way they addressed him, and the way they deferred to him unquestioningly. Never had he been shown such respect under his father’s thumb. Never had he been made to feel so powerful. 

He _loved_ it. 

“For the Republic, deprivation. For the Sith? Degradation.” He pulled up his own notes from that morning, overlaying his annotated maps on top of the current geopolitical one rotating in the centre of the war room. There was a flicker as he zoomed in on the lower curve of the Outer and Mid Rim. “The Mandalorians had the right of it when they sought to blockade the Core Worlds, but they lacked the strength of numbers to enforce it with any degree of success. The Republic prides itself on its compassion, its sense of honour, the duty towards the common people.” At a gesture, several dozen planets were illuminated, glowing softly against the black of the map. “Destroy their ability to protect the common people, and they will fall.” 

The planets he had selected were entirely agriworlds, most with very minimal planetary defences in place; normally they would rely upon the Republic they served to see to their protection, but he had seen Saresh’s grand declaration, her bold assertion that no resources would be shifted to counter the threat posed by Zakuul’s fleets. 

He was going to enjoy making her choke on those words. 

“With the loss of Ziost, the Sith have an overabundance of resources, and will survive any siege attempts far longer than the Republic will,” he said, several graphs and charts appearing on other screens around the perimetre of the room. They showed the food intake of both faction capitals by the billions of tonnes, with Coruscant far overshadowing the needs of Dromund Kaas. “Whereas the Republic finds themselves in the opposite position, having lost entire supply lines that cost them hundreds of millions of lives, are balanced on a knife edge; although there were attempts at recovery by the governing bodies in the aftermath of Uphrades, the inflated prices on food items shows that their food reserves are non-existent. Deplete them further prior to an invasion or siege, and any defence they can muster will be only laughable at best.”

The same Exarch, the older woman- she seemed to have appointed herself as a spokesperson for the room- nodded as she gestured to the map. “We can have these fourteen under our control within the next forty-eight hours,” she said, the corresponding planets glowing at her command. “The bulk of the First Fleet has not penetrated deeply enough into the Mid Rim or the Colonies yet to establish a strong enough foothold for launching further attacks, but the loss of fourteen agriworlds should have a significant effect on the Core Worlds-”

“Which could mean turning their attention to our Fleets in an effort to dislodge us.” The speaker was, unsurprisingly, the father of the young man he’d thrown out of his bed hours beforehand. “Attacking their food sources and supply lines is a surefire way to get their attention and to ensure they take us more seriously as a threat. Better first to establish ourselves deeper into the Outer Rim, so that we have a stronger position to strike from.” 

Arcann had been expecting some rumblings of opposition, but he hadn’t been expecting it to be stated so boldly. Instead of angering him, however, it only delighted him- now he had the opportunity to quash such insolence, and remind them that he demanded their obedience and their devotion in exactly the same manner his father had. 

“And what would you consider to be a stronger position?” Arcann asked, turning his full attention to him again and staring coldly until the man grimaced and looked down. “Control of the hyperlanes? The fealty of the local warlords?”

“At the very least, we should be looking to annex one of the more populated sectors before we-”

“The Moddell Sector, for example?”

The Exarch hesitated, clearly sensing too late that he had been backed into a corner. “Yes, like the Moddell Sector,” he said flatly, almost sullenly. 

Beneath the mask, Arcann smiled, the movement tugging at the scarred flesh of his cheek. “I have good news for you then,” he said, keying in a command into the console. 

The galactic map shifted, refocusing on a relatively tiny section of the Outer Rim, all things considered. On a galactic scale, it was only of marginal importance, aligned to neither the Republic nor the Sith, but it was home to a relatively advanced race of avian-type humanoids who controlled and maintained the hyperlanes and monitored all trade and traffic in the region. And as of earlier this morning, his ships had been in position over their homeworld of Maya Kovel, his troops moving in to occupy the capital. It had not been a bloodless occupation, the Ayrou putting up a lacklustre attempt at defiance before realising how badly overwhelmed they were; the ships in orbit had destroyed their satellite system, and the few attempts at engaging in an aerial dogfight had been almost embarrassing for the Ayrou. 

They’d lost perhaps several hundred skytroopers, an acceptable loss for what they were about to gain. 

At the click of a button, a channel was established with his knights on the surface, who were at that very moment in position in the throne room, as instructed. Everything had gone according to plan so far, and to see the grudging respect on the faces of the far older men and women around him- all of whom were clearly expecting him to have been nothing more than the rash, violently unthinking brute that Valkorion had made him out to be. 

He enjoyed outwitting his generals almost as much as he enjoyed outwitting his enemies.

On the screen before them, once the channel cleared up, was the throne room of their ruling family, a strangely open auditorium that he’d read was designed for debate and spiritual lectures; he had no idea what the religious leanings of the locals were, and for the moment it did not matter. The walls were roughly hewn from the rock, showing off the rich veins of minerals the planet was famous for as if the wealth of ore in the walls was of little consequence to the rulers. 

Perhaps he would have the palace demolished, and the minerals used to craft something frivolous for himself. 

The king of the Ayrou was a tall and striking creature, the feathers draping elegantly from his head and shoulders reaching almost to the floor, an indication of his advanced age and wisdom. There was more downy plumage on his throat and the sliver of his chest that was exposed to view by his floor length robe, his muddy red eyes blinking in what he assumed was supposed to be nonchalance. He wore no crown to symbolise his rank, but he was nonetheless bedecked in golden jewellery, from the numerous gold bands around his elongated neck to the bracers on his wrists to the headband that held his feathers flat against his triangular skull; there were three gold dots embedded in his chin, and another two on the flat bridge of his nose. Everything about him reeked of the same sort of calm power and self assurance that his father had possessed. 

He hated him already. 

The king opened his mouth to speak, and despite being forewarned about the vocalisations of the species, it still took everything in him not to flinch at the grating avian screech that passed as their tongue. There was a protocol droid of peculiar design standing beside him, and in the flickering background of the holocall he could see the blurred outline of two gold clad Zakuulan Knights, their Force charged spears held at rest. 

Arcann waited until the king had finished before taking his own time to speak; no point in escalating things immediately if there were other paths to pursue. “I know that you understand Basic,” he said bluntly. “Do not waste my time playing at primitivism.”

The king cocked his head to the side, his feathers lifting slightly. He opened his mouth again and the same horrific shrieking sounds emitted, the pitch grating enough that he saw other people in the room wince and put their hands up to their ears; Arcann didn’t even move. 

The droid standing beside the king nodded awkwardly and then turned to face Arcann, hands spread wide in apology. “His most esteemed Majesty, King Tuasakee the Wise, bids welcome to you, Emperor Arcann, his brother king in spirit, and politely enquires as to why you have violated the sovereign territories of the great Ayrou people.”

Arcann watched the king closely during this speech, wondering just how much of it was improvised politeness on the part of the droid, programmed specifically to soothe tempers in moments of diplomatic tension. Apart from the occasional flick of a feather, there was nothing in his body language to suggest he was stressed by the appearance of warships in his skies, and armed warriors in his palace. 

He clasped his hands behind his back, excitement thrumming softly through him as he worked. He was _good_ at this, despite what his father might have thought. He was _better_ than his father, and he would only become better given time. “An emperor is no more brother to a king than a krayt dragon is to a worm,” he said; his words were met with angry squawks from off screen, and he saw one of the Knights tighten their grip on their spear. “Do not presume that we share a kinship.”

The feathers around Tuasakee’s neck fluffed up in irritation, ruffled like a pet parrot when annoyed by a child’s persistent attentions. He opened his mouth to more of the ear-wrenching nonsense, and Arcann only pretended to pay attention to half of it before he cut him off with a sharp gesture with his good hand. 

The protocol droid tried to interject. “His esteemed majesty desires to know why you seek war with his people, as they are aligned to neither the Republic nor the-” 

“Your people are the dominant race in the Moddell Sector,” Arcann said, almost conversationally. “You were one of the earliest species to develop space flight and then hyperspace capabilities. I have a great respect for the accomplishments and influence wielded by the Ayrou people.”

On the projected image, Tuasakee narrowed his eyes, but otherwise remained silent. 

“Your choices will have consequences for the entirety of this arm of the Outer Rim,” Arcann continued. “There are a great many worlds and peoples who will look to you for guidance, to follow the example set forth by your very _wise_ leadership.” He purposefully drawled over the descriptive, making it painfully clear how little interest he had in the king’s alleged wisdom.

Tuasakee hissed out a string of sounds, all of which made the audio sensors in his mask flare in warning of an overload; off to the side, he saw at least one of the analysts in the war room collapse. He gritted his teeth against the pain, like he always did, and endured.

“His esteemed majesty-”

“You have two options,” Arcann said, cutting the droid off cold. “My people already control your space lanes, your cities. You can surrender to the glory of Zakuul peacefully, serving us as a subject nation, or I can have you and your family slaughtered while my ships bombard your planet from orbit. Which will it be?”

Tuasakee drew himself upright to his full height, his feathers flaring in a display that was probably supposed to look intimidating but just looked ridiculous to him. The king hissed a single sound, the intent clear even if Arcann could not speak the language. 

He nodded, accepting the defiance. “Kill him,” he said simply to the guards in the background of the scene. There were high pitched shrieks of outrage and for the next few minutes there was little to see with any clarity; he could hear the searing slash of the plasma weapons wielded by his Knights, the clash of more traditional weapons, and more than one flurry of dislodged feathers obscuring the view. After a minute or two he grew impatient, and he cleared his throat pointedly- the Exarch responsible for the invasion was busy at work at a terminal on the far side of the projector, barking rapid commands to the few human troops on the ground and maintaining the control over the thousands upon thousands of sky troopers. 

At his prompting, one of their own Knights stepped into the space where the king had been standing moments earlier; there were scratches on their armour, deep gouges from claws, and a splash of almost purple blood across the torso. “My lord?” they said, clenching a fist over their heart instantly and bowing their head in reverence.

“Who was next in line to the throne?”

“King Tuasakee had a daughter, Princess Che’skeea the Unbound-”

“I don't care about whatever daft title the woman has, bring her here.”

The Knight bowed sharply, stepping out of view again; there was another half minute of confusion and violence, before two gold clad figures appeared again dragging one of the ayrou between them. This one had feathers in more muted colours than King Tuasakee had, tending more towards browns and reds than the vivid greens of the king, and they fell only to mid-back instead of all the way to the floor as the king had worn them. She- and he presumed this was the princess as he’d demanded- bore very little difference physically to her father, with the exception of her feathers; she was still ridiculously tall, and while she wore less gold than her father it was no less prominent. She wore a series of thick gold bands around her neck, and no shirt or tunic to cover her torso from view; her skin was a dusty purple colour, her flat chest showing the ribs beneath as she strained against her captor’s hold. 

“Congratulations, your Majesty,” he said flatly. “I hope you have more sense as a ruler than your father, who most certainly did not embody his title.” 

She shrieked violently, fighting like a caged iknayid as her limbs flailed in all directions. He didn’t need the translation from the droid to know the general sense of what she was saying.

“I’d advise you to consider your options with more care, your Majesty,” he said, already running out of patience. “Your people suffer and burn for your pride.” 

Che’skeea screeched so loudly that there was a spark of static in his mask; he grunted at the accompanying surge of pain, even as the room around him erupted into cries of agony and distress. Straightening again, Arcann stared coldly as she thrashed and fought in front of him. “Kill her,” he said simply. “Bring me the next one.”

A few minutes later a boy was dragged before him, no more than twelve or thirteen at the most by his guess, his weeping a high pitched series of hiccuping chirps. 

Arcann fought back a sigh. “Congratulations, your Majesty,” he began, but the boy was already babbling something hysterically at him, the only thing keeping him from falling to his knees in desperation the Knights who held him upright. 

The protocol droid, blood-splattered but otherwise unaffected by the events of the last ten minutes, turned back towards him. “His Highness Prince Nessyn, yet unnamed for his feats, begs your indulgence and declares his unwavering loyalty to your Majesty.” The boy was still babbling, squeaking and whimpering in their odd avian language, and Arcann was almost certain this time that the droid was not translating the entirety of it. “He pleads with you to forgive the ignorance of his mother and grandfather, and to have mercy upon the humble world of Maya Kovel and her people.” 

Beneath the mask, Arcann smiled. “Your humility does you credit, your Majesty,” he said. “We welcome Maya Kovel and her territories into the gracious embrace of the Eternal Empire.” 

____

Taking control of the Moddell Sector was not an insignificant achievement, granting them unhindered access to hyperlanes that led deeper into the Outer Rim towards economically crucial worlds like Eriadu and Bespin and Gerrenthum, all of which lay at their mercy with only minimal support in place from the Republic Fleets. He had called for a review of the voting patterns of those planets with delegates in the Republic Senate, looking to see who among their number tended to vote against Saresh’s ironclad hold on power and who had in the past shown any sympathies towards Imperial sensibilities. 

Loyalty to the Republic was a nebulous concept out here in the Outer Rim, something that was all well and good in the name of commerce and trade, but that never seemed to work particularly well for the locals when it came to war and defence. Far more important to protect the precious Core Worlds, founders of democracy as they were; far easier then, to lure off key players with the promise of support and protection from a far closer power base. 

Those who harboured Imperial leanings would be the easiest to lure away, but he had time. 

“My lord?”

Arcann shook himself, deep in his musings as he tried to address every wayward thought in his head before it escaped. The morning had been a day of astounding successes, and it was not even noon. “What?”

The Exarch standing before him was a younger man, probably of a similar age to himself- young enough that he wasn’t shaped by a lifetime of having served Valkorion, young enough that the fanaticism that had led him to the position of Exarch in the first place could still be turned to better serve him. 

“I have news for you, my lord, and I did not believe it appropriate to bring up in the general assembly.”

That instantly put him on his guard, because anything that was deemed not sensible for general discussion could only be something potentially damaging. “Out with it, then.”

“My lord, we believe we have a lead on the whereabouts of the imposter.”

Even the mention of the insult masquerading as his brother was enough to sour his good mood instantly, and his cybernetic arm clenched into a fist at his side; in front of him, the Exarch couldn’t hide his flinch, and those closest to them skittered a few steps away almost without thought. He took a slow breath in through his nose, fighting the rising tide of anger in him. “What news?” he asked quietly, the words coming out like a warning growl. 

The Exarch hesitated briefly, enough to earn them an actual growl from him, before hastily handing over a datapad. “We received a very brief signal from a skytrooper pod in the Gordian Reach-”

Arcann looked up at him sharply, hand half raised to take the proffered datapad. “Why do we have pods deployed out there?”

“That’s the first issue, your Majesty- to the best of our knowledge, we don’t. But we received a signal on the frequency reserved for skytrooper communications, and we traced it to an empty patch of the Gordian Reach, close to the Radama Void.”

The only explanation for a pod to have drifted so far was for it to have been planted deliberately- the Reach was too far from Korriban for it to have made its way there naturally after being dislodged during the invasion, and the Stygian Caldera provided a natural buffer for any space debris, the gravitational pull channeling it back towards the Sith homeworlds. Someone had uploaded instructions for the pod to make its way to the Reach, and deliberately too.

The question was, was it Thexan, or was it father? Thexan had been gifted limited control over a portion of the fleet during their invasion, a sign of their father’s overwhelming favour and preference for him as a son and an heir, so in theory he _might_ have done it and simply not told him in the blurry, pain-filled days that had followed Korriban. Maybe he’d planted it in preparation for a larger assault that had never come, cut short after his injuries had distracted his brother. Maybe it had been a contingency, in the unlikely event that they’d needed to retreat. That was something Thexan was likely to do- always cautious, always careful, always trying to plan for every eventuality and driving himself to distraction obsessing over every _what-if_.

Irritably snatching away the datapad, Arcann scrolled through the readout on the screen. “And what signal did this pod allegedly send?” he said, eyes scanning rapidly through the technical coding of the original response. 

The young man cleared his throat awkwardly. “We don’t actually know what cipher is being used, it’s not one used in our standard programming for the skytroopers, so we were... bringing it to your attention in the hope that it was a restricted frequency used by the royal family.” 

They thought it to be a secret message from Thexan. 

It took every ounce of restraint in him to not crush the datapad in between his metal fingers, but he still heard the plastoid case crack in his grasp. The Exarch glanced nervously from his face to his hand, very obviously clenching his jaw in fear. 

He took a deep breath. “Get out of my sight,” he said, the words nothing more than a guttural hiss. The Exarch’s eyes widened in fear, and then he was stammering as he backed away rapidly, his retinue of analysts and hangers-on all scurrying in his wake as they rushed to get away from him before his temper exploded. 

He couldn’t say he blamed them- after all, he’d killed the man’s predecessor only days beforehand, for delivering him news about the imposter. 

Without a word to anyone else he turned on his heel and stalked from the war room, making his way back through The Spire towards his private suites. His steward was standing at the ready, forewarned of his approach, and the man bowed his head respectfully as he drew near.

“My lord-”

“I am not to be disturbed,” he snarled, stalking past him and into his rooms, slamming the door closed behind him. 

There was anger thrumming through him, hot and thin in his veins like acid, and he was breathing so hard he was almost light-headed. Somehow, and he wasn’t sure how, he managed not to hurl the offending datapad at the far wall. 

He set the datapad down on the table instead, going to a small draw in a cabinet on the wall and retrieving a peculiarly modified data-breaker; it was highly classified technology, designed to interface directly with the Eternal Throne and the vast super-computer it housed. It had been found amongst his father’s personal effects after his death, and Arcann had wisely decided to keep the discovery to himself, and not let Vaylin know of its existence. 

There were multiple dataports in the tabletop itself, and it only took a moment to connect it all, the breaker connecting with the super-computer and immediately setting to work on the encrypted transmission. Even as he watched, the loading bar began to tick over rapidly, and he set it down to process while he waited.

_In the hope it was a restricted frequency used by the royal family._

He rubbed aggressively at his good eye, feeling gritty and tired despite the early hour of the day; of course they wanted to believe Thexan wasn’t dead, of course they wanted to hope there was an alternative to the brutish, violent half-machine on the throne right now. Of course they wanted back Thexan, the perfect prince and perfect heir and perfect warrior, who hadn’t been perfect enough to defend himself against a wild, irrational attack that should never have landed in the first place if he was half the warrior he was meant to be. 

He’d done everything in his power to see that the Republic’s insulting attempt at mockery had not disseminated widely amongst the populace, but it was obviously inevitable that those involved in the investigation itself would have seen the footage. He wondered how many of the Exarchs had seen it, how many of the analysts whispered to each other as they watched them in private; hoping against all reasonable hope that the image was not false, and that there was still a bright side for them all in their grief.

Because of course there was no reason to think that _he_ could be the salvation for their grief, now, was there?

He scowled, shaking his head violently, as if to clear the paranoia festering in his mind. There was nothing to worry about, because Thexan was dead- he’d died in his arms, after all. 

Still, as he glanced irritably over at the datapad, waiting for the gentle beep to indicate the decryption was complete, he couldn’t seem to stop himself from pulling up the user interface in the glossy surface of the table, flicking through the relevant screens until he found the files he wanted. He must have watched them hundreds of times over at this point, the victory parade ruined by a sniper’s attack and the farcical courtroom that the Republic had devised- as if they had any right to bring a Prince of Zakuul to trial- and every time he watched them he found himself trying to find new reasons to deny their imposter was his brother. 

The most obvious, of course, was his complete acceptance of the Battlemaster’s control over him. In both sets of footage, she reached for him immediately, her hand going to his face and touching him so familiarly that he felt his skin crawl at the imagined contact. In both sets of footage he stared at her, his expression awed and confused and frightened in one. 

He was a good actor, he’d give him that much. And it wasn’t so unimaginable that they might have been able to find someone who bore close enough resemblance to the two of them that they hoped to pull off this charade; to the less enlightened, of course, it was probably fool-proof. But he knew his brother, more intimately than he knew any other living soul, and he knew that this pretender was not him; it wasn’t even a question of asking whether or not Thexan might have survived the blow that had felled him, given that he had felt him die. He knew that there was a great deal he did not know about the Force, about the immense power that flowed through him like a raging river, and he knew it was entirely possible that the bond they shared could have been severed, enough for him to believe him dead when in truth he’d lingered long enough to be saved. 

No, it wasn’t that at all- it was the knowledge that under no circumstances would Thexan have allowed himself to become such a petty trinket, a shiny conquest of war for them to trot out for their own amusement. He was passive in the vids, almost meek, and even when father’s disdain and abuse had been at its worst, Thexan had never been _meek_. 

Thexan would have fought every god still left in the pantheon to return to his side, not sat about dumbly like a pet on a leash; for the indignity of daring to imprison him, he would have painted the halls of the Republic Senate with the blood of those who would mock and defile his memory. 

He remembered, very clearly, the day in their childhood when their father had separated them. For a year, he’d said, they were to live and learn apart, to better understand how to survive and thrive in the face of every challenge thrown at them. They’d only been twelve, and he still remembered Thexan’s screams as they’d dragged him to another wing of the palace, the fury and the panic still blood-chilling over a decade later. 

His brother was dead, because his brother would have fought. If Thexan was truly alive, if there was some grand conspiracy that had managed to keep his survival a secret until now, then Thexan would have fought every power in the galaxy to return to him. The fact that he had not, that this imposter sat meekly and quietly and allowed the Battlemaster to lead him about, only proved it to him- this was some scheme cooked up by the Jedi, to taunt him for the very same insult he had done them by taking their finest warrior from them. 

She would pay, and so would the imposter. 

The data-breaker beeped quietly to announce that the file had been successfully decrypted, and he ran a hand over his head in anxious frustration as he picked up the datapad again. Keying in his override acceptance, he waited as the file buffered the contents. 

He was expecting a data file at most, perhaps the original command codes that had deployed the pod in the first place, something to indicate what had led to one of their attack pods being so specifically abandoned in an empty stretch of space in the heart of the Sith Empire. Instead, he was surprised to find that the file was a video format, no audio either recorded or recoverable from travelling over such a vast space to their receivers. The footage was clearly from the optical sensors of a skytrooper, and it was only eight seconds long. 

He realised he was holding his breath as he opened the file, but he was so tense that he couldn’t bring himself to relax; his teeth were clenched so tightly that it was a wonder they hadn’t shattered from the pressure. Inside his mask, a gentle warning sensor began to flash as his blood pressure rose, and he ignored it. 

The file began to play. 

Eight seconds was long enough to show the interior of the pod, the cramped space stuffed full of the war droids in various states of compression in order to make the most of the room available. Eight seconds was long enough to see the red warning light flashing, and the way the droids all rattled as the pod soared towards its target at speed. Eight seconds was long enough to see the violent impact, as the pod pierced the side of the enemy craft, and the droids all crashed forward to rush through the breach. 

Eight seconds was long enough for a brief flash of footage of the inside of the ship, something that his brain automatically registered as Republic standard, and eight seconds was more than long enough for him to freeze in gut-wrenching horror at the sight of the imposter standing barechested and wild-eyed with the Jedi Battlemaster held tight in his arms, as if he was _protecting_ her. 

There was a scar across his stomach, wide and flat and flushed redder than the rest of his skin- just like a lightsaber wound would be expected to look like. 

The imposter pushed the Battlemaster behind him and danced out of the way of the first volley of blaster fire- actually _danced_ , as graceful and nimble as if he was in the ballrooms of The Spire itself- and in the first forward roll managed to secure a length of railing as a weapon. He swung it up-

And the footage ended as the weapon connected with and presumably destroyed the droid, the file looping back to the start. 

There was a sparking, crackling crunch as Arcann crushed the datapad in his fist, sparks hissing against his cybernetic arm as the pieces fell from his clenched fingers onto the floor. He was breathing wildly, panting and chest heaving, and with a roar that echoed through the corridors of The Spire, he threw the ruined remains against the far wall.


	38. Chapter 38

There was someone else in the room with him. 

He came awake very abruptly, one moment fast asleep and the next blinking in the quiet gloom of the chamber, his nerves high strung from the knowledge that he was not alone. It wasn’t Ona’la, either, that much he knew- he wasn’t necessarily sure _how_ he knew, just that this presence nearby was not her, and his first instinct after the kneejerk surge of adrenalin was relief that she was not immediately at risk. 

The presence was powerful, most assuredly a Force user, and he breathed out carefully through his nose as he sought to centre himself, to rein in his fear response. When he was certain that he was calm- or as calm as he was likely to be, he took a deep breath and sat up, trying not to wince at the ache in his head and the way the room spun around him as he did so. The first few blinks revealed nothing, his eyes squinting against the pain, and he rubbed wearily at his face before trying again; he focussed a little easier this time, and he carefully scanned the room before him to try and find the source of his unease. 

He didn’t have to look far. Sitting cross-legged with her chin propped up on a fist was the ghost Revan- hovering several feet above the floor near the bed as she scrutinized him. 

He’d been in far too much shock to have taken much in the other day when he’d first seen her, so he studied her now. She was, to his great dismay, appallingly young- she looked to be younger than he was by several years. Whether that was by choice or whether that was a true reflection of the age at which she had died, he couldn’t say, but there was something extremely unnerving to look upon a figure of legend and see someone who scarcely looked older than his sister staring back. 

Gods, _Vaylin_ , that was who she reminded him of- the same gleeful violence, the same whimsical cruelty, the same unmeasurable power painfully shoved into a mortal vessel. 

Her features were eerily similar to Tahrin’s, but far softer, as if the last hints of childhood were still clinging in the plump of her cheeks. It was hard to tell, given how insubstantial her form was, but her skin tone seemed to be darker than her daughter’s, drawing to mind the two young children he was still struggling to accept could possibly be his niece and nephew. 

Her eyes were the worst, though- dark and empty and entirely inhuman. A reminder that this was not a mortal woman keeping him company, but something else entirely, something that had transcended the bonds of death and that was likely not so much a soul as it was a memory of one. An imprint on the Force, like ripples still unsettling a pool long after a stone had broken the surface. 

She didn’t seem to object to the fact that he was staring at her as boldly as she stared at him, nor did she do him the courtesy of looking embarrassed at having been caught out in the first place. She was brash and unafraid, almost defiant as she very obviously perused him from head to foot, her gaze enough to make his skin crawl; she finally breathed out heavily, almost a snort, as if she was mildly disgusted with what she saw. 

“Did it hurt?” she said, without preamble. 

Thexan blinked. “I... beg your pardon?”

“Did it hurt? When you died,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I don’t remember my death very well. It was a long time ago, though.” 

He swallowed, uneasy. “I, um...” How could he even _answer_ that? “Not really? Most of the pain came after I woke up again.”

“Well that’s _boring_.” Her form slithered and shifted, and then she was lying horizontally, her face still propped up on one hand while her feet kicked absently, as if she was lying on her stomach. She was, however, still unnervingly balanced several feet above the ground at the end of the bed. 

Her flippant disregard for something that was still causing him immense amounts of distress and pain was more than a little infuriating. “What do you want?” he snapped.

She bared her teeth at him, her mouth far too wide to be entirely human. “Amusement,” she said, and he realised it was supposed to be a grin. “It’s very boring, living for three hundred years.”

“I thought you were dead.” 

“No thanks to your father,” she said, something mocking in her tone. “And _Scourge_ , of course. Pompous, obsessed with fate, self-declared martyr that he is.”

Her anger was a palpable thing, something he could feel crawling over his skin like a sentient presence until he wanted to slap at himself to brush it away. It was like insects. Some of his unease must have shown on his face, because she hissed out a sigh and the sensation retreated. “You look like him,” she said, changing the direction of the conversation abruptly. 

He didn’t need to ask who she meant. “You met him?” 

She scoffed, amused. “Of course I did. He killed me, didn’t he? He was more human back then, but not by much.”

Thexan swallowed nervously. “What... what was he like?” 

Her shape shifted again, like mist roiling and reforming, and then she was on her back, her braided hair hanging down towards the ground as she stared at him upside down. “Obsessive,” she said simply. “Pretentious. And possessive too, he doesn’t like to share power. He was obsessed with the Rakata even before I discovered the secrets of the Star Forge.” 

That all sounded horrifyingly familiar. “But you destroyed it, didn’t you?” he said. “To stop him from using it?”

Revan shrugged. “I destroyed it because it wanted to eat me- stopping a semi-sentient superweapon from consuming me was higher on my list than Vitiate at the time. But it wasn’t the only one.”

“The only one what?”

“The only Rakatan superweapon.” Again with the talking down to him, as if it was immensely obvious what she was talking about and he was nothing but a simpleton. “The Rakatan Empire lasted for thousands of years, they had plenty of time to litter the galaxy with the remnants of their megalomaniacal nonsense. My useless son claimed one as his own, and promptly lost it to the Sith- which, I note, I heard whispers that _your_ Empire has Malgus as a trophy? Did you take the Foundry too?” 

His head was aching. “I’m not-”

“Because that’s just like him, to be honest, stealing technology from one Empire to empower another, that’s exactly what he’d do, and everything I’ve heard about your sky-clankers-”

“Skytroopers.”

“Whatever, they sound like Infinite tech to me. And the fact that he’s running around calling you all the Eternal Empire? He’s set up his own little Rakatan fanclub on the edge of Wild Space, he’s roleplaying pretending he can match the heights of The Builders. You think it’s a coincidence that Zakuul has arisen from the swamps so quickly, so close to the ancient homeworld of the Rakata?”

He was still mentally raw and fragile from earlier, his head pounding and his eyes aching, and the last thing he wanted to do was debate the origins of his father’s hobbies and obsessions with a three hundred year old sith ghost. “Well, it’s not like it matters now,” he snapped, “since he’s dead.”

Her smile widened and she rolled upright again, suddenly a lot closer than he was comfortable with; he put a hand up out of instinct, to keep her at bay and she only seemed to find that funny. “ _I’m_ dead too, dear prince,” she purred, drifting closer. “And yet you seem to find yourself concerned for your safety in my company.”

“Leave him alone, Revan.”

The apparition straightened with a snarl, leaping backwards like a disgruntled feline. Ona’la stood in the doorway, her expression calm but her eyes firm as she stared her down; Thexan was almost embarrassed by the immense surge of relief he felt at seeing her. Revan, for her part, was perched on the top of the couch like some sort of malignant bat, her dark eyes sullen as she returned Ona’la’s stare. 

“I don’t like you,” she hissed.

Ona’la didn’t even flinch. “I know. You’ve been quite clear on that front, and I’ve apologised for what Scourge did to you out of the belief he was helping me. That doesn’t give you leave to torment Thexan.” 

There was a flash of light and movement, and then Revan was hovering in the air in front of Ona’la, only an inch or two separating her snarled face from hers. Ona’la still hadn’t even blinked at the tantrum. “I am more powerful in death than you will ever be in life,” Revan snarled.

“I’m aware of that,” Ona’la said firmly; this was her Battlemaster persona, the same one that had leapt in front of a sniper for him on Coruscant. “And I respect you immensely, but you will not toy with him.”

“You cannot command _me_.” 

“I am not _commanding_ you, I am _telling_ you- you will _not_ touch him.”

And in that moment, watching her threaten the ghost of one of the most powerful Force users to have ever shaken the galaxy with her presence, Thexan realised one very simple truth.

He was in love with Ona’la. 

Revan hissed at her, not at all dispelling the image he had of her as some half-wild creature, and had he not been reeling from the revelation about Ona’la he might have been more alarmed by the threat such a gesture posed to her. “You are my daughter’s guest,” she said loftily, drifting back a few feet until there was a safer distance between them, “and so I will leave you be, for her sake.”

“You are too kind,” Ona’la said, with not even a trace of sarcasm. 

With a last glance in his direction- and a wink that made his skin crawl-, Revan abruptly vanished from sight, the oppressive sense of her presence easing slowly until he at last felt at peace again. Or at least, as close to peace as he could find, so soon after upending his entire worldview by realising he loved Ona’la. 

It wasn’t that he was _frightened_ of the prospect of love... alright, no, that wasn’t entirely the truth, it terrified him more than he knew how to say. Not the concept of it, not the idea of being in love with Ona’la, but more the history behind it, or her reaction- would she laugh in his face at his confession, to think she would ever love the son of her greatest enemy and tormenter? Was he just reeling from the loss of Arcann, and latching on to the first kind soul who showed him any hint of emotional intimacy? 

He loved her, and it terrified him to think how badly love might hurt him this time. 

Unaware of the mildly panicked turn his thoughts were taking, Ona’la came over and sat on the edge of the bed, reaching out to touch him; she put her hand on his forehead, frowning slightly. “You feel warm,” she said, concern in her voice. “Are you feeling alright?” 

_You are a prince of Zakuul, a conqueror. Not a trembling waif._ “I’m fine,” he mumbled, “it’s just warm in here.”

She smiled gently, and it made everything in him yearn desperately towards her. “It is,” she agreed. “Yavin doesn’t have the most pleasant of climates, I’ll be the first to admit. I’ve never been fond of this sort of humidity.” 

He didn’t know what to say to her- everything in him seemed to be on high alert, as if waiting for the moment when he lost all sense of self control and blurted out the depths of his feelings for her. “I’m fine,” he said again, and if he could have slapped himself he probably would have. 

Ona’la, bless her, didn’t seem to take the petulant reply as any sort of insult towards her. “Has your headache settled?” she asked instead, her hand smoothing his slowly growing hair back and then moving to his cheek. It was such an unconscious display of affection, so easily offered to him, that it made his heart ache. 

He didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve _her_ \- he needed to put a stop to this ridiculous fantasy before it killed him to let go of it. 

“What will you do if Saresh and the Senate decide to imprison me when we return?” he asked, not quite able to meet her eyes; he kept his gaze on her chin instead. 

“Fight for you,” she said, without even a second of hesitation. Her fingers were gentle as she stroked his cheek, and when he turned his face into her palm she let him hide there. “I’ve already done it once. I’m hardly going to stop now.” 

He closed his eyes, her palm warm against his skin. “The circumstances are different,” he said quietly, his voice a little hoarse with repressed emotion. 

“The circumstances are entirely the same- the Republic wants to imprison you without trial, in a time when our resources are better spent elsewhere. The fact that we are at war officially shouldn’t change-”

“They will say your attachment to me skews your good sense.” Oh, but it felt humiliatingly pitiful to say it out loud, to hear the pleading undercurrent to his words. “They will say I have corrupted you, and your opinion is baseless.”

She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead, resting her lips against his brow for a moment; he was on a knife edge, convinced that she needed to see the risk she faced in being his champion, but desperately hungry for her validation. His chest was tight, like durasteel bands wrapped around him until they choked him, and his eyes burned but he kept them squeezed shut as he hid his face in her hand, trying not to lean into the touch needily. 

He felt her breathe out softly. “Freykaa,” she said gently, and that was enough to destroy what little control he was holding onto. 

Ona’la held him while he wept, cradling his head against her shoulder; he clung to her, _terrified_ that she’d look down at him in disgust and recoil from his weakness, terrified that she’d finally come to her senses and realise how much better off she was leaving him to the cruel mercy of the rest of the galaxy. She had a war to fight, a war that he was equally responsible for, and she couldn’t afford being encumbered by his grief and the hounds clamouring for public justice. The rest of the galaxy needed her, and they deserved her far more than he did. 

But she whispered ‘ _beloved_ ’ like she meant it, and Scyva save him but he wanted to believe it. He wanted to believe it so badly. 

“I have never been allowed to claim neutrality,” she said, her fingers gentle where she smoothed her hands over his back. “From the moment I became a public figure, my actions have been subject to intense scrutiny, and my motivations considered suspect- so if there are those who choose to view my defence of you as the result of corruption, I can guarantee they’ve already made up their minds without having seen us together.” 

He hiccuped when he tried to speak. “I don’t like knowing I’ve made things worse for you,” he said.

“You haven’t made things worse,” she said firmly. “Just different.” 

_Thank you,_ he wanted to say, but instead he said “I’m sorry.”

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, Thexan, but I forgive you. Please don’t feel bad on my account.” 

He sniffed awkwardly, his face hidden against her shoulder. “I won’t leave,” he said quietly, proud that he didn’t hesitate over the words. “If you were worried, I mean. I won’t put you at risk like that.”

Ona’la made a wordless sound, something that could possibly have been a laugh or a sigh of relief or any number of things rolled into one. “I know,” she said. “You told me that already, and I trust you.” 

“I wouldn’t trust me.”

“Mm,” she said. “Then I’ll just have to have faith in you enough for both of us.” 

He closed his eyes, the words causing him more pain and more elation than he would have thought possible. She was foolish to trust him, because not even Arcann had trusted him in the end. He was desperate for her trust, and knowing he would do _anything_ to keep her faith intact was a staggering revelation. 

_I love you- just say it. Just say the words, just tell her._

But he was a coward, and he stayed silent, because he didn’t know if he had the strength to leave his heart so vulnerable again. He’d loved Arcann, with everything in him he’d loved his brother, and in the end love hadn’t been enough to save either of them. If he accepted his feelings and spoke them aloud, would it just end the same way, with his love not enough to protect him from the inevitable fallout?

Beside him on the bed, Ona’la shifted slightly, enough that she could pull away to look down at him. She wrinkled her nose at him, feigning disgust. “You’re all sticky,” she said, poking him firmly in the centre of his chest.

Even knowing she was teasing, he still flushed awkwardly, looking down. “Well, it’s- it’s humid and hot, and it’s only sweat-”

“Shh,” she said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for it to upset you.” She leaned in and kissed his forehead. “Here, I’ll just state it as fact, completely non-judgemental- you’re all sticky. Would you be okay with me running you a bath?” 

He stilled. “I- but, that’s...”

“That’s what?”

“Isn’t that what servants do?” he asked, feeling sick to his stomach. “I don’t think of you like that, I don’t want you to be-”

Her gentle laughter cut him off. “Thexan,” she said patiently, “an act of servitude does not make a person an indentured servant automatically. Sometimes, it’s just about taking care of someone you care about.”

He stared up at her, horrified and yearning in one. “I’m not a prince anymore,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to... do this.” 

“But I _want_ to,” she said, her fingers gentle on his cheek, “and that’s the difference.” She kissed him, her lips pressed carefully to his, until he slowly relaxed against her. When she pulled away, he made a faint noise of protest, and she smiled at him, eyes sparkling. “Just wait here,” she said, extracted herself from where he’d unconsciously wrapped himself around her on the bed. 

Left alone with his thoughts, he stared somewhat bleakly up at the ceiling. It was all well and good for her to say she did these things because she wanted to, but was she truly not influenced by his old rank? She had bought him all those foolishly expensive clothes on Coruscant, after all, clearly expecting him to have standards of comfort far above her own. 

He couldn’t stand it if she were sacrificing her own peace of mind for him. He needed to say something about it, obviously, he needed to just stop being a coward and tell her that he loved her and that he didn’t want her wasting so much of her energy on trying to... _fix_ him, or whatever it was she thought she was doing. 

Scyva save him, how had he gotten to this point, so twisted up in her and in thoughts of her?

_I’m not worth it_ warred with _I love you_ , and by the time she came back to fetch him he was no more decided than he had been when she’d left. 

She took his hand and coaxed him from the bed, leading him across the room and into the refresher. The stone pool was steaming gently, and the air was tinted with a hint of something floral. She’d set out fresh towels and little bottles beside the edge, a bar of soap sitting in a dish waiting for use. 

It was far more than he deserved, and such careful consideration for his needs made him feel peculiarly vulnerable. 

The low rumbles of anxiety he felt abruptly skyrocketed when Ona’la turned to him, her fingers going to the hem of his trousers. He let out a strangled noise out of instinct, immediately tensing. 

Ona’la stopped instantly. “No?” 

Thexan gritted his teeth, trying to convince his racing heart to calm down. “No, it’s... I wasn’t expecting it. Give me a second.”

She didn’t move again, her hand on his hip burning his skin as he waited for the spike of anxiety to settle again. He appreciated that she hadn’t questioned his hesitation, or tried to coerce him. 

“Is it too scary?” 

He laughed shakily, his head still ducked so that he didn’t have to make eye contact with her. “It’s, um...” He swallowed. “It’s nerve-wracking. I’ll say that.”

“Would it be easier if I turned my back while you got into the bath?” 

“Uhh... maybe?” 

He felt her squeeze his hand reassuringly. “Of course,” she said, stepping back and turning to face the sinks. She’d obviously anticipated that this might be an eventuality, because she’d draped a towel over the mirror, so as to maintain his sense of privacy. 

Knowing that she’d considered his fears and his feelings so carefully that she’d prepared for this situation made his already smitten heart ache a little more for her. Nobody had ever stopped to consider his comfort like this before, not even Arcann. 

Taking a deep breath, and trying to ignore the way his skin prickled with awareness, he pushed his trousers down over his hips towards his feet, biting the inside of his cheek when his cock sprang free of his underpants a little too eagerly for his peace of mind. He was desperately relieved that Ona’la was facing the other way, because if she’d seen that, his traitorous cock bobbing with interest from nothing more primal than holding hands, she probably would have laughed at him. 

He awkwardly kicked his pants off and balled them up in his hands, tossing them off to the side.

“Is it safe for me to turn around yet?” Ona’la asked politely.

He felt a surge of panic at that. “Not yet!” He lurched back around towards the bathing pool, almost slipping as he clambered down into it. The water was pleasantly warm, not enough that it made his skin sting from the heat of it; the water splashed noisily over the sides, and he tried not to wince from feeling like a clumsy oaf. 

“Now?”

He clung close to the edge, his arms crossed on the stone and his chin resting on his forearms; he couldn’t hide forever, but it offered him some semblance of preserving his dignity. She wouldn’t tease him for his nudity, he knew that, but it was still... it was hard to explain. He felt extraordinarily exposed, more than just physically. “Okay,” he said, trying to ignore the way his voice wobbled. 

Ona’la turned back towards him with a smile that would have made him weak-kneed had he been standing; as it was, given the faint throb he felt in his cock, it was a relief that she couldn’t see him. “Is the water okay?” she asked, gathering up a towel and setting it down over the puddle he’d splashed onto the stone. 

“It’s fine, honestly.”

And then she said the last thing he was expecting from her. 

“Do you mind if I join you?” she said, already reaching up to undo her headpiece and set it aside on the counter. 

It took him a very long moment to realise he was holding his breath, and he tried to relax with limited success. “Join me- in the water?” he said stiltedly. “As in... naked?”

Her smile turned gently teasing. “Well, I’d hate to be overdressed for the occasion,” she said, the faint flush of colour in her cheeks the first sign that she wasn’t perhaps as confident as she was pretending to be. “If you object, of course, I’ll leave you to bathe in peace.” 

_Say something intelligent._ “Naked.” _That’s not helpful at all._

She actually giggled. “As long as that’s alright,” she said, her hand lingering near the collar of her tunic as if waiting for his permission to remove it. 

Thexan stared at her for the longest time, trying to weigh up what he wanted versus what he was feeling, and slowly accepting the fact that the nerves weren’t necessarily an expression of fear. He breathed out carefully, counting to three slowly in his head. “It’s alright,” he said finally, quietly. 

Ona’la nodded once. “Okay,” she said simply, and she pulled the tunic up over her head before he had time to have second thoughts on the matter. 

He let out a sound that might have been a needy groan if he was going to be honest with himself, drinking in the sight of her rich blue skin suddenly on view for him to enjoy. He’d seen hints over the last few days, entwined together in bed with their hands all over one another, but sitting and watching her layers fall away and knowing it was for him and him alone was one of the most exhilarating experiences of his life. He sat up a little straighter when he spotted the scars that decorated her body, lifting his head off of his crossed arms. 

She noticed his interest and glanced down, smiling ruefully at the largest of the scars. “Nothing compared to yours, I’m afraid,” she said, her fingers brushing over one that sat high on her ribs, just beneath the hem of her brassiere. “Just a history of poor judgement and embarrassing mistakes.” 

The words were out of his mouth almost instantly. “I don’t think you’re capable of poor judgement.”

She laughed softly. “That’s sweet of you to say, but I have the _worst_ sense of self preservation,” she said. 

He hesitated for a moment before continuing. “Well, I’m grateful for it,” he said, the water sloshing gently in the pool with his movements. 

He saw her bite her lip, and it sent a rush of heat through him; the heat grew again when she loosened the tie on her pants, easing them down over the curve of her hips. He’d seen her bare-legged only the night before, but that had been in the heat of the moment, caught up in the sensations and the tastes and the smells. Now, in the bright light of daytime, with several feet to separate them, it was like discovering it all again for the first time. 

She had a little bit of a belly, just enough to make her look softer than he knew she was- he’d fought her to exhaustion on the steps of the spaceport in Eriadu, he knew the strength and the endurance hiding behind the gentle exterior. It was just ever so rounded, with little pale blue lines where the skin was stretched; they were like little lightning bolts, trailing over her belly and thighs, and his fingers itched with the desire to trace the shapes they made. 

When her hands went to the clasp on her chest, he held his breath; there was colour in her cheeks as she pulled away her undergarment, her breasts hanging heavily without the support. Her nipples were a dark blue, almost purple, and he was mesmerised by the sight of them- they moved ever so slightly with every breath she drew, and gods above and below, he wanted to touch her so badly. 

“You aren’t breathing,” she said, laughing shakily, and it was somewhat comforting to see she was as affected as he was. “Don’t die on me now, that’ll be far too embarrassing to live with.”

He sucked in a noisy breath, his head spinning. “Is that good enough?” he asked hoarsely.

She nodded ever so slightly. “I’m going to, um...” She gestured to the last item of clothing she wore, the plain cotton underpants she wore. Honestly, he couldn’t imagine even lace and silk being more provocative or erotic at this point. 

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” he said, stuttering ever so slightly. 

“No, no I want to.” But she closed her eyes for a moment as if embarrassed. “Would, um... would you mind, just, maybe turning around?” 

He tried to quell the momentary disappointment he felt, nodding fervently instead. “Of course,” he said, awkwardly shuffling along the edge of the pool so that he had his back to her, and so that he didn’t expose his own arousal in the process. 

It was embarrassing to admit that he strained to hear the sounds of her stripping off the last of her clothing, but there was nothing else for it- he did. He’d seen her legs, shapely and smooth, and imagining her underpants sliding down her thighs and leaving her bare for his hungry gaze was enough to have him biting the inside of his cheek to repress the groan he wanted to let out.

The water slapped noisily at the sides of the small pool as she unsettled it, and the waves sloshed against his skin with similar gusto; somehow, he resisted sneaking a look over his shoulder, allowing her the same privacy she’d afforded him, but knowing that she was naked in the water with him was breathtaking. When he felt the water move, when he felt _her_ behind him, he was so dizzy with the experience that he had to cling hard to the edge of the bath to keep himself upright. 

“Relax, Thexan,” she said, and he let out an embarrassing noise when he felt her hands come to rest on his hips in the water. “The whole point of this was to get you to relax.”

“That’s not so easy when there’s a beautiful woman naked within arm’s reach,” he said, his voice hoarse with need. 

“I don’t see anyone else here.”

“What? No, I mean-” He stopped when he realised she was teasing, his cheeks burning even as he felt the warm breath of her laughter on the back of his neck. “I’m not _that_ bad at giving compliments.”

He sucked in a breath when she stepped in closer, her body pressed intimately up against his back; he could feel every inch of her, and his hands went immediately to her own hips, holding her against him. 

“ _Gods_ , Ona’la.”

Her arms went around his waist, hugging him close, and she rested her head against his shoulder blade. “I want to take care of you, Thexan,” she said, and for the first time he noticed that her voice was shaking, as if she was only pretending to be in control of herself. “I- I want you to feel good-”

“You do,” he rasped, his fingers clinging hard to the soft curves of her hips, “you do, you really do.”

“I know that- that there’s a war,” she said, extraordinarily breathless; she pressed an open mouthed kiss to his neck and he moaned. “And I know I should be focussed. But I’m not, I’m not, because I just, I can’t stop thinking about you-”

Her nipples were hard where they pressed into his back, and gods but he wanted to touch them; he wanted to see what she tasted like, every inch of her, and he was so achingly hard that he could feel himself throbbing. The way she rubbed her hips against his ass wasn’t easing his condition at all. 

Panting, he arched his hips back against her. “Do I distract you?” he asked hoarsely. 

“ _So_ much,” she said, her hand sliding lower over his belly until her fingertips were tauntingly close to his cock. “Goddess preserve me, but I can barely _think_ straight-”

“Are you thinking about me?”

“ _Yes_.”

“Are you thinking about doing things to me?” 

Her teeth closed gently over his earlobe as her hand wrapped around his cock. “So many things,” she said, her voice shaking. 

He let out a high pitched groan, his head tipping back to give her better range of access to his neck. His hips jerked eagerly forward, into the grip of her hand, and it wasn’t _enough_ , even while it was too much at the same time. 

Thexan turned in her embrace, trying not to let his gaze fall immediately to her nakedness; his cock jutted out and poked her in the hip, and he felt his cheeks flush even as he tried not to let his nerves show. He was just glad that the water provided a measure of distortion, if nothing else. “The war will still be there tomorrow,” he said, pretending his voice hadn’t cracked when he’d spoken. “Right now-”

“Right now it’s just us,” she finished in a whisper, her hands wet and warm from the bath as she let them come to rest on his chest. Her eyes were wide, and the hunger in them might have frightened him once upon a time. 

Now it just excited him. 

It all seemed to linger in a frozen moment, the water sloshing gently against their waists while she stared up at him, her hands slowly burning him. 

Then they finally exploded. 

He surged forward and wrapped his arms around her so fiercely that it surprised him when she didn’t cry out; her arms went around his neck and her mouth met his halfway, and then they were devouring one another, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise as they kissed like starving beggars presented with a feast. 

Her breasts were crushed between them, and his cock was pressed flat against her belly, already slick enough on the head to leave marks on the smooth blue of her skin. Even the pressure that came from their frenzied kissing was enough to make him harder, and he found himself rutting absently against her when they broke apart for air.

Ona’la wasn’t in any better control of herself- her eyes were glazed and wild, and she’d hooked one foot around the back of his calf, not so much that he had uninhibited access to her body, but certainly enough that the offer was there.

They took barely a heartbeat to catch their breath before they were on each other again, her hands grabbing at him desperately; he took advantage of the implicit offer and slid his hands down to her ass, pulling her flush against him and urging her legs further apart until she all but jumped onto him, her thighs going tight around his hips. Even with the heat of the bathwater, he could still feel the heat of her core as she rubbed against his cock, and he let out a shuddering groan.

She cried out in pain when her back hit the stone edge of the pool rather forcefully, and he tried to babble an apology. “Towel,” she gasped, pointing past his shoulder to the floor on the far side; he glanced over his shoulder and spotted the towel she’d put down earlier to cover the puddles he’d splashed. 

He mumbled something that was somewhere between ‘ _stay here_ ’ and ‘ _wait_ ’, lunging across the pool and sending waves sloshing over the sides. The towel was already sodden, so it didn’t matter so much if he made more mess, but he tried not to think about how awkwardly overeager it made him seem. Snatching up the towel, he stepped back over to her, coaxing her forward so that he could put the fabric between her skin and the stone as a buffer. 

“Better?” he panted.

She nodded frantically, sighing contentedly. “Much.”

“Good,” he said, stepping in close until she had to part her knees to give him room; he wanted to lose himself in her again, get caught up in the frenzy of their kisses, but this seemed like too good an opportunity to pass up. 

He lifted a hand from the water and brought it up to her breast, marvelling in the almost silken texture of her skin even as she moaned and tipped her head back. The weight of it in his hand was delightful, the fullness peculiarly satisfying, and as he traced his thumb over the curved surface she trembled beneath his touch, her skin breaking out in shivery little bumps. He squeezed gently and the moan turned into a whimper, a sound that he found himself matching as he watched her face. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he rasped, running his thumb over the firm peak of her nipple.

She cried out, her hips pressing in closer to his, his cock rubbing at the curve of her belly. “ _Thexan_ ,” she said, panting so much that it pushed her breast into his hand, her nipple pressed against the flat of his palm. 

He knew in theory how sex worked, but having a functional understanding of something and physically experiencing it were light years apart, he was quickly realising. He knew what was required of him, the actual act of copulation, but _stars above and below_ nothing could have explained or prepared him for the dizzying hunger in him that drove all common sense out of his head, or that left him with incoherent longings like wanting to put his mouth on her skin and taste the pebbled hardness of her nipple against his tongue. Wanting to suckle at her breast had nothing to do with the mechanics of the act, nothing but wanting to feel the warmth of her under his mouth and under his tongue and feel her writhe and shudder beneath him, completely impractical. It was just mindless, desperate need, a hunger that was setting his blood on fire and his skin ablaze. 

He was sort of coming around to understanding why Arcann had defied their father for this. 

She reached for him, and he went eagerly into her arms, pinning her against the wall while her legs went up around his hips again. It was extraordinary, kissing her and grinding against her and feeling the exquisite sensations that came from skin to skin contact. Everything was so violently, wonderfully new and foreign to him, and the only thing he could desperately pray for was that it felt just as good for Ona’la. 

When he slid his hands down to her ass again and took some of the weight of her, she moaned delightedly, her lekku winding around his forearms as if to encourage him. “Please,” she whispered hoarsely, her eyes glazed with lust and hunger. 

He groaned in response. “Do you- can you, um, reach?” he asked, hoping that the blood rushing to his cheeks wouldn’t have a negative impact on his cock. “To, um, sort of-”

“Show you where?”

“Gods, yes,” he said, relieved that he didn’t have to say it.

She kissed him again, and when he gasped at the feel of her fingers around his length she deepened the kiss; it was a little awkward to find the right angle the first time, and he might have tried to push eagerly forward a little sooner than she was ready- if her startled grunt was anything to go by- but after a moment of jostling and awkwardness he felt her body relax for him. 

He happened to be looking at her face the moment they came together, and the expression there was unforgettable. There was wonder in her eyes, her mouth hanging open ever so slightly as she panted softly and waited to adjust to the new sensation; but more than that, there was such a complete sense of trust there, so completely without fear and awed by their shared closeness, that it utterly undid him. 

If there had been any doubt before, there was none now. He loved her. 

“Ona’la,” he rasped, at a loss for what to say to express the immensity of what he was feeling. 

“It’s okay, Thexan,” she said, dotting little kisses over his face and neck and shoulders, wherever she could reach him with her mouth. “It’s okay.”

He laughed shakily. “I know it is,” he said hoarsely. He nearly said it, then- he nearly told her that he loved her, but then she did _something_ and he felt it, felt the way the pressure of her body changed around his cock and _Scyva fucking save him_. 

It was easier to just kiss her, and lose himself in her. 

Her legs were around him and her arms were around him, and _gods_ , he could feel her lekku moving over him as well; she was everything and everywhere and he could taste her and feel the heat of her as he moved within her, the water slapping noisily at the sides of the pool and against their skin as he thrust into her. She had her mouth beside his ear, and her breathing was nothing more than a series of ever more frantic gasps, little moans that grew in volume and more hysterical with each thrust; it was, without a doubt, the most amazing thing he’d ever heard in his life. 

He tried to draw it out, to stop himself from succumbing to the inevitable and peaking within the first thirty seconds, but Scyva save him, it was _hard_. She was so tight and so hot, and the sounds of her escalating pleasure were driving him crazy, and more than that there was a weirdly primal thrill to be had in knowing no one else had ever heard her make such noises, or been allowed to touch her so intimately. He didn’t want to say that they were fucking because that sounded so crass and brainlessly physical but he had no idea what to call this almost animalistic way they’d come together. He wanted her to leave marks on him, he wanted to hear her _scream_.

“ _Thexan_ ,” she wailed, her hands scrabbling at his back and her heels digging into the small of his back. “ _Goddess_ , I _can’t_ -”

He wasn’t going to embarrass himself again, he wasn’t, he wasn’t, he was going to finish this properly and he wasn’t-

He felt her muscles tense around him, and all of his good intentions went out the window. 

He let out a high pitched groan as he hid his face against the curve of her neck, his hips jerking erratically as he came. On the final thrust he buried himself deep within her, shuddering as the pleasure of his release swept through him, and hoping the buoyancy of the water was enough to keep him from slithering into a boneless puddle on the ground. For several long moments he held himself there, dazed and panting, twitching with the odd little aftershocks that seemed to pulse through him like an electric shock. 

But his blissful peace of mind was interrupted by the sensation of Ona’la arching against him, her lips pressed against his ear as she huffed out a sob.

“No, no don’t stop,” she whimpered, all but grinding herself against his hips. “Please, goddess, Thexan-”

He was still inside her, and wasn’t so overwhelmed by the orgasm that he couldn’t awkwardly reestablish the rhythm they’d shared moments ago; he kissed her, and adjusted his grip on her until he could hold her one handed, the other hand dipping between them to rub at her in the manner she’d enjoyed so much when they’d been together in bed. 

Somehow, between it all and despite his clumsiness, it was enough for her, and feeling the way her body clenched abruptly with the force of her own orgasm was enough to have him choking on new pleasure. Her hands were digging in so forcefully to his shoulders that he was sure to have a half circle of bruises where her fingers had clawed at him, and she seemed almost surprised by her own pleasure, if the way she writhed and squirmed was anything to go by. 

It was magical. There was no other word for it. Feeling her coming apart around him, sharing it with her- it was magical. 

He loved her. Gods above, he was so damned smitten by her. 

She was trembling in his arms, panting softly. “Ona’la?” he whispered, rubbing his nose against hers gently.

He felt her smile. “I was going to wash your hair,” she whispered in response, laughing shakily. “I got a bit distracted.”

Shifting his grip on her thighs, he grunted slightly as he slid free of her body, delighting in the soft gasp she let out at the sensation. “I’m sure we can still manage that,” he said.

“Mm,” she said, sounding somewhat dazed, “that’s optimistic of you. I don’t think I can feel my legs.” 

He smiled against her mouth. “Should I take that as a ringing endorsement of my skills?” he asked, nuzzling at the corner of her lips. 

She giggled. “It wasn’t going to be like this,” she said. “I swear I wasn’t going to seduce you in a bathtub.” 

It was too good an opportunity to pass up. “So there was going to be a swelling orchestra and rose petals drifting down around us as we made passionate, perfect love?” he asked, pulling back ever so slightly so that he could see her face as the words sank in. 

Ona’la blinked, her beautiful purple eyes slightly drowsy, and her lips swollen from the bruising kisses. For a moment, only confusion settled in her expression, and he almost laughed; then, understanding washed over her, and the awkwardly embarrassed smile she gave him was possibly the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. “You’re teasing me,” she said, as if the notion delighted her. 

“I might be.”

“You’re actually teasing me,” she said, sheer joy in her eyes. “ _Goddess_.”

In the end, that was what pushed him that last little inch over the edge- the look of joy, of delight, of _love_ in her face, so bright that she just about lit up from within. “I love you,” he said, before his common sense could reemerge from hiding. 

In his arms, Ona’la froze; he felt her thighs tighten briefly where she still clung to his hips. “You- what?” she asked, her eyes going wide. 

Izax forfend, he’d done it now. “I- maybe that’s not the right word for it,” he said, stammering slightly. “Or, maybe- I don’t know, should I have not have said it right after sex?” 

“You love me?” she whispered, and his heart lurched when he realised her eyes were shining with tears. 

“Oh, it’s- _stars_ , Ona’la, please don’t cry,” he said urgently, reaching up to cup her cheek in his hand; a tear slid past her lashes and he brushed it away with his thumb. “I’m sorry, was that the wrong thing to say?” 

The relief he felt when she laughed was nothing to the blinding joy he felt when she leaned up to kiss him, her arms going tight around him and her ankles still locked behind his back. She kissed him so hard that his head spun, the breath snatched out of his lungs. 

“I love _you_ , Thexan,” she whispered, and he couldn’t help the awkward noise he let out at the proclamation, something that was sort of a laugh and sort of a groan of relief and sort of a desperate, disbelieving sob. “I didn’t know how to say it, because I’ve never said it before, and I didn’t want- I didn’t want you to think I was trying to manipulate you, or- or-”

He cut her off with a kiss, because that was easier than trying to put the immensity of what he was feeling into words. She, apparently, felt the same way, because she returned the kiss with an almost eager desperation, and for a time he lost himself in her.

When he had to break away to breath, he said it again, because the words were near to bursting out of him. “I love you,” he rasped. 

“I love you,” she said immediately in response. 

Eventually they made their way out of the pool, and Thexan had every intention of letting her towel off and dress herself in peace- but the sight of the water droplets trailing down her back and dripping slowly from the ends of her lekku were too much for him. She squealed in delight when he came up behind her and lifted her into his arms, her hands going immediately to his neck and shoulders to cling on as he carried her to the bed. 

He did a little better the second time- no orchestra, no rose petals, but when Ona’la sobbed his name and dug her nails into his back, he couldn’t have cared less about what they _didn’t_ have.

This was all he needed. Ona’la, and the knowledge that she loved him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the long wait between chapters, June has not been so good for me. And more than that, this was completely not what I had intended to happen in this chapter, nor was I expecting it all to happen at once, the proclamations of love and the wild sex, but apparently Ona'la and Thexan had ideas contrary to what my script had them scheduled for. 
> 
> Damn characters, getting a mind of their own.


	39. Chapter 39

“My lord?”

Tahrin blinked, suddenly aware that her attention had drifted as the weariness had risen to swamp her again. She grimaced, reaching up to rub at her eyes and the inevitable grit she felt there. “Apologies, Quinn,” she said, her voice far less composed than she would normally allow it to sound. A sign of how comfortable she was in his company, perhaps; she had no doubt he was aware of the implications of it, and the trust it implied. Sometimes, when the darker aspects of her moods took hold of her, she hoped bitterly that her trust in him hurt him. Most of the time it was too exhausting to consider the complicated nuances of their relationship and what each social cue might mean. “The twins have not slept well these last few nights, with all the extra activity.”

Seated opposite her in her private office, Quinn made the appropriate expression of sympathy. “Of course, my lord,” he said, immediately reaching out to offer to refill her glass from the iced pitcher sitting waiting on the desk between them. She shook her head faintly and he sat back. “There’s no need to apologise. If you’d prefer, I can reschedule our meeting for a more appropriate time?”

She cast him a withering look, and he at least had the good sense to look abashed by it. “There’s no such thing as a more appropriate time when you have children, Malavai,” she said pointedly. “It’s just simply about snatching what precious moments they allow you.”

Quinn set his datapad down on the desk, folding his hands in his lap. “If it would serve you, I could see to procuring more staff, or another nanny droid,” he began, but Tahrin waved him off.

“Vaane has broken the last two droids we brought in,” she said, her mouth twisting in some approximation of amusement. “He’s far too clever for his own good, and his Force powers grow exponentially. I’ve no doubt at all that any further attempts to delegate his care to others will result in similar results- for better or for worse, I need to be involved in their care to nurture their growth in a healthier direction.” She paused, and then huffed out a breath of air, something akin to a laugh. “ _Nurture_. Not a word I would ever have associated with myself.” 

“I can still see to having more droids shipped in, as a contingency. Your work is important, after all.”

She drummed her fingers absently on the table. “My _children_ are important, Malavai,” she said finally, quietly. “At the end of all things, I do all of this for them.”

She heard him sigh and glanced at him. At her curious look, he shrugged half heartedly. “I know your answer, my Lord, but that doesn’t stop me from trying. You take on far too much for your own health-”

“And when was the last time you allowed yourself a break for something other than sleep?” she asked, almost teasingly. “You don’t even stop for meals.”

He looked suitably chastised at that. “The management of your empire-”

“Stars above, don’t call it that, please. Interests or alliance, but never an empire.” She shuddered exaggeratedly. “I can think of nothing worse than being an Empress.”

“The management of your _interests_ ,” he continued, not at all perturbed by her interruption, “is more than a full time position at this point, my Lord. I simply do not want to disappoint you.”

It was a loaded statement, weighed down with their personal history of anger and betrayal and grief. After all these years, he still held the unenviable honour of being the only one to have provoked her to a blind rage, the only one to have witnessed what she was capable of when consumed by her anger. The fact that he was still alive at all was due only to Jaesa’s intervention, something that still made him miserable in her company to this very day. 

He didn’t want to disappoint her, because he knew like no one else what it meant to disappoint the Wrath.

Sometimes, when she was alone with her thoughts, she wondered whether that should bother her more than it did- not knowing whether he served her out of a genuine desire to do so, or out of fear. Sometimes she wondered exactly how badly her emotional development had been skewed by the abuse and torture of the facility, and whether or not Quinn’s servitude would have distressed her in another lifetime. 

She wondered a lot of things, when she was alone. 

“I think we are destined for a great deal of disappointments in the coming months,” she said, rubbing wearily at her face. “I’m sorry- what were you saying when I drifted?” 

“We were discussing the possible avenues for procuring battleships in the likely event that the Eternal Empire disables the major shipyards.”

She pinched her nose, feeling a headache building. “And our options aren’t good,” she said, stating the obvious. 

“No, my lord. The sensible thing for Zakuul to do in this situation is to maximise fleet superiority- not a difficult venture in and of itself, from what we’ve seen of their technology so far, but certainly preventing the production of additional warships will hasten their takeover.”

“We need something as far from Zakuul as possible,” she mused, even knowing it was a hopeless venture. “Something they’re not going to notice straight away.”

“My lord, anything capable of mass production is not going to avoid notice.”

“I know,” she said irritably, feeling the weight of the universe pressing down on her once again. How much easier would it be to simple wash her hands of the whole mess, to leave the galaxy to the squabbles of her extended family? “Arcann would be a fool to cripple every shipyard in the galaxy, because even he would realise that disrupting trade will have a negative impact on his plans- they won’t pay any attention to a mid-sized venture specialising in pleasure yachts or merchant craft.” 

“We can’t reproduce the Silencer in a mid-sized venture- they won’t have the resources or the infrastructure to undertake such a project, and they certainly won’t be able to hide it.”

“But a facility specializing in private craft can still provide a level of cover for large scale productions taking place nearby in secret- large scale shipments of equipment and building materials won’t draw nearly as much attention if there is a legitimate reason for them to be transported into the area, and we can establish a secondary facility-”

“My lord, I have every faith in you, but what you are suggesting spreads our finances dangerously thin,” he said. “Even with sound investments to amplify your mother’s estate, we cannot keep spending without restriction, and funding the construction of an entire shipyard when we’ve already committed to the partnership with Prishardia is not a sensible proposition.”

Tahrin shrugged. “I’ve committed to feeding an army,” she said, “seems a bit foolish to leave them sitting about with no way to take the fight to the enemy.” 

“We cannot match Zakuul-”

“I have no intention of matching Zakuul, Quinn, and you know this. My focus is and has only ever been Vitiate.” She stretched her foot under the table, an old ache making the muscles twinge. “I simply need the freedom to observe events as they develop, and if that means funding an army to maintain my independence, then so be it.”

“Perhaps an unnecessary observation, my Lord, but maintaining an army seems to be counterproductive to our goals, given that- should Emperor Arcann become aware of it- it will be viewed as a hostile threat.” 

She made a tired gesture with her hand, dismissing the point. “Should Emperor Vitiate reemerge, we risk far more being unarmed than we do by acting covertly under Arcann’s rule. It’s a risk, I’ve weighed the costs, I’ve determined them necessary.” 

He looked as tired as she felt, small streaks of silver-grey at his temples and lines at the corner of his mouth that hadn’t been there when they’d first met all those years ago on Balmorra. She wanted to say he looked at least invigorated by the work, but truthfully? She couldn’t. What she was attempting was foolishly ambitious at best, and brazenly suicidal at worst, sure to attract the attention of both Republic and Empire eventually, not to mention Zakuul. 

Everything she did could easily be mistaken for the same greed and powerlust that had consumed Malgus in the end, or Darth Vich several decades before him- and that now, apparently, had taken hold of the man who was presumably her biological half-brother. 

She would not allow the galaxy to fall to Vitiate, she would not condemn her children to bear the burden of her generation’s failures, and so... if that meant she had to run the risk of being tarred with the same brush, called a tyrant and a conqueror and an oathbreaker for turning her back on the Empire and amassing her own fleets, then so be it. She would be a tyrant. She would be an oathbreaker. 

She would stop Vitiate, and finish what her mother should have done three hundred years ago. 

As if on cue, the lights flickered with the onset of a brief power surge, and then Vivaane was lying draped across the desk; Tahrin didn’t even blink at the melodramatic display, but Quinn jerked backwards in alarm, fumbling with his datapad and stylus as he tried not to drop them. 

“Mother,” Tahrin said wearily.

Vivaane had her attention on Quinn. “Hello, Malavai,” she purred, reaching a pale, ghostly hand towards him; his chair screeched loudly against the stone as he lurched out of reach. Revan laughed delightedly. “So _paranoid_ , Malavai, it hurts my _feelings_.”

“With respect, Lord Revan, I have enough difficulty with _living_ sith lords- you upset my equilibrium entirely.”

“I like uptight Imperials,” Revan cooed, arranging herself like a cantina singer might over a keybed. “It makes it ever so much more thrilling when you _break_ -”

“ _Mother_.” 

Vivaane groaned like a teenager exasperated at being scolded, and then with a whisper of ethereal smoke she was across the room, sitting upright on a table with her legs crossed and her hands clutched to her ankles, like a schoolgirl sitting and waiting for instruction. Tahrin despised her most when she was like this, like some kind of mean-spirited trickster god playing at innocent youthfulness to lure in her victims. “I _came_ to give you an update, but if you’re going to be _rude_ ,” Vivaane said, pouting in an exaggerated manner as she trailed off significantly.

Tahrin sighed. “What is it, Vivaane? I’m rather busy.” 

Vivaane matched her sigh, her shoulders heaving with the force of it. “They’re fucking like womp rats, can I stop stalking him now? All his weeping and rending of clothing was very boring.” 

She saw Quinn pale and glance to the floor, very pointedly not making eye contact; his embarrassment was awkward for her, given how little embarrassment she felt herself. It was a reminder of just how many social cues made utterly no sense to her. “Thank you for the update,” she said blandly, opting not to ask for elaboration from her. Knowing Vivaane, any request for clarification would come in the form of a pantomime of the act, complete with eerily parroted voices, and as much as she was unbothered by sex, she definitely did _not_ want to hear a mimicry of Thexan’s voice in the throes of passion. “I appreciate your work.”

Vivaane smirked. “Of course you do,” she said. “Am I allowed to talk to Theron now?”

“He told you quite firmly he didn’t want to speak to you.”

“He’s not _your_ son!” 

“And he’s not yours either, and frankly my opinion doesn’t even matter right now given that _Theron_ told you to stay away from him.” 

With a grumpy hiss that sounded remarkably inhuman, Revan rose into the air and kept rising, ascending all the way to the vaulted ceiling and then through it. Tahrin fought back yet another sigh, this one of relief, as she felt the prickling along her skin retreat with Revan’s presence. The weariness that settled over her as she relaxed felt a thousand times heavier than it had before. 

Quinn was still staring at the floor, his knuckles white where he gripped the datapad. “Was any of that necessary, my lord?” he asked, with far less respect than he normally showed her. In fact, she’d go so far as to say that- were it anyone else she was speaking to- his voice was dripping with contempt. But this was _Quinn_ , and he did not make his thoughts known to her so plainly; there were lines in their relationship, boundaries they simply did not cross. Dissatisfaction with the pranks and antics of Vette and Jaesa, outright hostility towards Pierce, awkward affection with the twins... these were things she knew and expected. 

He didn’t show his disdain for _her_ actions. He just... didn’t.

Tahrin sat up straighter, palms flat on the table. “I apologise for my mother,” she began, but he cut her off.

“I did not mean Lord Revan,” he said, his tone still sharp. “I’m well accustomed to her antics, as much as I find them distasteful.”

She breathed out slowly through her nose, the cold beginning to burn inside of her. “Then what,” she said softly, “did you mean?” 

She saw his lips thin as his jaw tightened, as if he was fighting himself on whether or not it was sensible to speak. “Did you truly set her to spy on the Battlemaster and the Prince?” 

Hardly the most egregious accusation she’d ever had levelled against her. “Mother has been supervising Thexan at a safe distance for the entirety of his visit. I was concerned for his safety.”

“Did you tell her to influence their affections for one another?” 

_Ah._

She sat back slowly, trying to will away the cold of her anger; her anger was always cold, always slow and monstrous, like an abyssal void opening up beneath her feet. Only he had ever witnessed the one time her anger had burned, and they both still bore the scars. “I did not tell Revan to interfere,” she said, “nor would I condone such a thing. I simply asked her to observe.” 

The sharper edge of his temper abated slightly, the press of his emotions a little less suffocating for her. “And that includes intruding on their privacy in a moment of intimacy?”

“Quinn, that’s-” She closed her eyes, searching for patience. She hadn’t planned to have this conversation with anyone at all, but her mother had a knack for throwing her carefully placed plans into chaos with little more than a wink. “Why are you even upset? And on behalf of a Jedi, no less.” 

There was a flush of colour along his cheekbones that she was hesitant to say was a blush; he seemed too frustrated to be blushing. “I have-” He grimaced, and started again. “I have served you faithfully these long years, my lord, with everything in me, to repay the debt I owe you for my betrayal. And I did it because- because I told myself that you were different to the men and women like Baras, that you were not like the other sith who use and abuse their power over the rest of us-”

She did sigh, exasperated. “Quinn,” she began.

“And yet when it truly matters, not in moments of grand betrayal like Lord Malgus but when it comes to protecting the people under your guardianship, you choose manipulation as your weapon of choice,” he said, a slight tremor in his voice. “You are supposed to be _better_ than that.”

Oh that was immensely amusing. “I do not have to be _anything_ to you, Captain,” she said, the frost seeping out of her like blood from an open wound. “And I _certainly_ don’t have a responsibility to act as your mythical moral outlier to convince yourself you aren’t simply trapped in the same arrangement that you were with Baras.” 

He stared at her, his defiance surprising her; he held her gaze, which was almost unprecedented for him since the incident above Corellia so long ago. “Why,” he finally asked quietly, “was it so important for you to receive that sort of... _update_ , were it not an outcome you were actively working to achieve?” 

Several clues carefully slotted into place as she took in his genuine frustration- she knew that Baras had instructed Quinn to gain her trust by any means necessary, including seduction. Outright demanded it, in fact, with no regard for his personal boundaries or lack of consent. She suspected that, at times, his affection for her wavered from platonic towards a more romantic leaning (much to her bewilderment). She took a deep breath, holding eye contact with him. “Ona’la and Thexan entered into a physical relationship without my influence, and to the best of my knowledge, without the interference of any other Force users. I observed their attraction to one another upon arrival, and sought to encourage it, but under no circumstances was the situation forced or coerced. It was completely consensual.” 

It took a moment, but the anger in his eyes slowly bled away, left only with bitterness; she saw his shoulders sag ever so slightly. “That does not explain your fascination with it,” he said at last. 

“That was purely logistical on my part- Vitiate has in the past demonstrated obsessive levels of interest in the Battlemaster, and his interest in his own son should be obvious by now. Keeping them together reduces the number of resources I need to allocate to them in order to watch for signs of Vitiate’s return.” 

She finally saw the last shreds of defiance whisper away. “This was a logistical consideration only?” he said grudgingly, and she knew she’d won him back over. If there was one thing guaranteed to win Malavai’s respect and enthusiasm, it was the sensible allocation of resources. 

Tahrin settled back against the chair, shrugging faintly. “Perhaps it is selfish of me, but I find it satisfying to see him... _them_ , happy.” She finally looked away, because it was too hard to offer up the confession with his eyes on her. “My transition from the facility was not an easy one, and I find myself... invested in making sure he does not suffer as I did.”

It was perhaps the most honest thing she’d said to him since she’d whispered ‘ _I would have given you the world, had you but asked me_ ’ in the aftermath of his betrayal. 

It was the closest thing she had within her to admit that she cared. 

Quinn eventually cleared his throat, drawing her out of her maudlin thoughts. “If we are concerned about Emperor Vitiate’s interest in the two of them,” he said carefully, his tone now respectfully neutral again, “are there any specific measures you would like us to undertake? Any resources that should be assigned to monitor them?” 

Tahrin rubbed at her eyes again, still vastly exhausted; she was half expecting any moment to have her mother burst in again to tug at already frayed nerves, or to have Gabriel appear and announce that the twins were inconsolably fussy and throwing tantrums for their mother. And yet, despite dealing with an unruly Force ghost and two intensely needy children with no control over their burgeoning Force sensitivity, she still found herself deliberately collecting the greatest names in the free galaxy in order to fight an immortal tyrant. 

She honestly had no sense of self preservation. 

“They will need a ship,” she said bluntly, rolling her head slightly to the side to stretch out an ache. “The Battlemaster will undoubtedly be provided with her own craft in time, as the war escalates, but Prince Thexan will need his own. It will offer him a measure of independence, and will serve as a reminder that the Republic is not the only sanctuary available to him.”

“Did you have a preference for model or make?”

“Nothing from a registered Imperial shipyard,” she said. “I’d prefer if it was not from the manufacturers preferred by the Jedi, but I am willing to concede that is nothing more than a petty bias of my own.” 

“Our options are limited, but I will speak to Moff Pyron to see what they have on hand on the fleet. And I suppose that brings us back to our original topic, before Lord Revan interrupted.”

“Shipyards, yes,” she said, trying to drag her thoughts back to the direction their conversation had taken before Vivaane had appeared. “And- before you start again, I don’t want to hear about funding concerns right now, I just want to discuss our options.” 

He breathed out sharply through his nose. “Very well, my lord. Well, there are numerous industrial and manufacturing worlds that meet your criteria.” He tapped out something on his datapad, and the small holoprojector on the desk illuminated with a tiny map of the galaxy. He ran his stylus over the southern quadrants, highlighting entire sectors at once. “I would advise against anything at all in this region, because regardless of any financial advantage or proximity to resources, it is far too close to Zakuul to remain undetected for long. We could possibly mask our activities as criminal, but we’ve yet to see whether or not Emperor Arcann is concerned about the threat posed by pirate and criminal fleets. He may dismiss them as unimportant, or he may target them with extreme prejudice.”

“Agreed,” Tahrin said, flicking the holo image so that it rotated in front of her. “It concerns me that he’d expect any resistance effort to come from the Outer Rim, and is likely to monitor activity taking place in far flung places.” 

“He cannot monitor events in every single system...”

“But he can monitor _enough_ ,” she said pointedly. 

Quinn tapped his stylus against the corner of the datapad, deep in thought. “Then, logically speaking, we take advantage of an existing facility, and quietly privatise it for our own use. An established facility continuing to produce civilian and mercantile craft will not draw excessive attention.” 

“The captain who smuggled Theron and the Major here- she has connections to Dubrillion, yes?” 

“I wouldn’t suggest Dubrillion as a sensible option, my Lord, the planet is still very much consumed by the civil war. We could not guarantee a stable environment for an investment of such a scale.” 

“Jaemus has potential then, or Yaga Minor,” she said, tracing her finger over the region of space in question. “Arcann doesn’t seem to be entirely willing to traverse the Unknown Regions, so any attempts to approach far galactic north, we’d have ample warning as his fleets moved through the Core.”

“I’d be more inclined to suggest Copero, perhaps, if the Ascendancy could be convinced-”

“They could not,” came a voice from the doorway, and Tahrin almost smiled at the way Quinn immediately bristled at the sound of it. She turned her attention to the door as Thake sauntered in, the chiss malcontent flopping aimlessly down onto one of the couches in the room; she tried not to wrinkle her nose in dissatisfaction when he propped his muddy boots up on the pristine white of the cushions. “The Ascendancy are all but preparing to withdraw entirely. You’ll get no help from them.”

Tahrin folded her hands together on the desk in front of her. “My office does not have an open door policy, Thake,” she said blandly. 

“I don’t give a shit, your office currently doesn’t have Revan and so that’s a plus in my books.” 

Across the desk from her, she heard Quinn sigh in resignation; she shared the sentiment. “You can just tell her to go away, Thake,” she said. 

“She doesn’t even listen to _you_ , why the fuck do you think it would work for the rest of us? I tell her to piss off, she just laughs and tells me how much she would have enjoyed _keeping_ me during her living years.” 

Tahrin closed her eyes wearily. “You know that you can absolutely tell her-”

“ _Keeping_ me. Like a _pet_. I’m not a _pet_.”

“Do not interrupt Lord Dara again, agent,” Quinn said icily. The relaxed set to his shoulders was gone again, replaced with a fierce rigidity that made it very clear how poorly his impression of Thake was.

It would have been nice if just once, her staff managed to get along with one another. 

Thake, apparently, shared Quinn’s vague sense of loathing. “Don’t call me _agent_ again, Mister Captain sir,” he said, his words dripping with sarcasm. “If you do, I’ll tell her Lord Revan-ness that you’ve got a hankering for her ghostly attentions.” 

Quinn turned to Tahrin. “My Lord, with your permission, I will have this miscreant removed immediately.”

She waved a hand at him. “What do you want, Thake?” she asked, beginning to wonder whether she was destined to just keep repeating that phrase every time someone disrupted her day. “You made it clear to me that you weren’t interested in establishing a very active dialogue between us.” 

He snorted disdainfully. “You get my information, you don’t need me to be your bestest buddy friend on top of that,” he said snidely. 

“Precisely. That’s why I’m asking what you want, so that you can be on your way.” 

“Mm, I’m considering making a fuss, ‘cause it’d be interesting to see just what Captain Starch-Pants would do to get rid of me.” Thake leered at him. “We could wrestle to see who gets to stay.” 

Quinn went red, his eyes furious; Tahrin hid her exasperation at the two of them behind her hand. “My Lord, please, let me-”

“Quinn, contain yourself, and Thake,” she pointed at him rather forcefully, “out with it, and then leave.” 

Thake threw an arm over his face as he lay back against the couch. “I’ve been listening. Isn’t that what you pay me for?”

She gritted her teeth at the rising frustration she felt at his delaying tactics. “Of course, and that’s why I’m asking. What information do you have for me?” 

He breathed out noisily, almost more like a raspberry sound than a sigh. “Lana and the Sixth Jedi woman have made some sort of alliance, the Republic Major and the Moff are being extraordinarily friendly given their relative positions in enemy camps, Captain Voresh is a cheating cheater who claims to have links to the Dubrillion throne-”

Tahrin and Quinn shared a significant look at the confirmation of their earlier musings.

“And she’s a cheating cheater, by the way, in case you missed that, and she’s come into contact with a lot of influential figures if her collection of pants is anything to go by.”

Tahrin blinked. “Her collection of... pants?”

“There’s dissent in Havoc Squad beyond the Gand being vaguely traitorous the other day, something about their demolitions expert,” Thake said, counting off on his fingers even while he kept his arm over his face, “the Mandalorians may break away from the Empire’s treaty to take the fight directly to Zakuul, Shan and Thessa made contact with their new employers- here, I recorded the conversation.”

He rummaged in the pocket of his jacket and then tossed a datachip towards them, Quinn fumbling to catch it in time. 

“Do you need me to sabotage them?”

Tahrin shook her head. “That won’t be necessary-”

“Honestly, I’ll do it for free, you don’t have to pay me, anything to ruin that Asshole Ardun’s day.” 

She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Thake, I’d appreciate if you’d stop interrupting me when I’m speaking.” 

“Or you’ll what? You’ve already told me I can’t wrestle Starch-Pants.” 

“Just monitor them for now,” she said, vaguely exasperated. “There’s a limit to how far my reach goes at the moment, so far better to let them do the legwork for us and gather information that we might otherwise not have access to, or not have the resources to accrue.”

He grunted, digging his boots into the couch as he levered himself into a better position; she closed her eyes and tried not to think of her white cushions. “So that’s a no on ruining Asshole Ardun’s day?” he asked. 

“Thake, for the time being, I need them. _We_ need them. Lana’s so preoccupied with the loss of Nox that we can’t assume she’ll be a reliable ally, and their position outside of the power structures of both factions grants them slightly more autonomy in the eventuality that Arcann seizes control. Let them operate for now, syphon their information, and we’ll deal with them when we have to.” 

Thake let out an irritated groaning noise that began to trail on for several syllables; after it had continued for more than a few seconds, Quinn cleared his throat and deliberately turned away from him, angling his body back towards Tahrin. “I’ve sent your latest correspondence to Vowrawn, my Lord,” he said, with Thake’s droning whine carrying on in the background, “but we’ve yet to have a response.”

Tahrin clicked a few tabs on her table computer and pulled up a few files on the holoprojector; the current listings for the Dark Council hovered nebulously in the air between herself and Quinn. “Imperius,” she said, rubbing wearily at her face as she flicked a few of the names away, uninterested in considering them. “He travelled with Nox for a time- they apprenticed together under Zash, if I recall correctly- and he’s young and not quite so embedded in the traditions of the older members.”

“Do you wish to push him for candidacy for Emperor?”

She cast him a withering look. 

“It’s a legitimate question, my Lord, the stability of the Empire is determined by the coherency of the leadership- we have no Emperor, and the Dark Council is in disarray, so it stands to reason we require a single figurehead if we cannot reinvigorate the council.” 

“I don’t want an ally only to send him to his death against Zakuul.” 

Thake made a disparaging noise from the couch. “You’re not going to have many allies in that case,” he said in a sing song voice, “because we’re all going to die to Zakuul.”

It was like trying to mediate between toddlers again. “Thake-”

“You haven’t seen them. You haven’t _been_ there. _I’ve_ been to Zakuul, and I can confidently say we’re all going to die.” 

“Then why are you here?” she snapped, her temper fraying dangerously. 

“Uh, because you pay me? And because I’m hiding from Revan. I thought we’d covered that.” 

As if his words had summoned her, Revan reappeared at Tahrin’s side, the malignant mischief absent from her eyes for once. “I had a thought,” she said, before Tahrin could tell her to leave. “About something the prince said.” 

Thake covered his face with a pillow, and a muffled scream sounded from beneath a moment later. 

“Thake, darling, if you want foreplay I can come over there and choke you in just a moment,” she cooed, her eyes blackening for a brief second before she turned her attention back to Tahrin. “I made a comment about Zakuul being Vitiate’s attempt to replicate Rakatan technology, and he didn’t deny it. Granted, I don’t think he’d be privy to the entirety of Vitiate’s plans because that’s not how he works, but at the very least you’re faced with an empire of advanced droid firepower that will overrun whatever defences the Republic and Empire feebly attempt to muster.”

Tahrin ground her teeth together. “Thank you, mother, that’s only what I’ve been discussing for the last few weeks now, so glad you could finally contribute.”

Revan made a tsk sound, dismissing the comment with a wave of her hand. “You’ve assumed too soon that you need to retreat and avoid conflict in order to stop Vitiate. You seek peace and tranquility, like a _Jedi_.” The way she spat the term made Tahrin wonder whether she should feel ashamed at all, whether this counted as a parent scolding a child and whether she should be distressed at her mother’s disapproval. “You need to think more like a Sith, and consider how to counter Zakuul _without_ surrendering.”

“I’m not surrendering, mother,” she said from between gritted teeth.

“You need someone with the power to counter the droid armies. Not an army itself, you need to think smarter than that.” 

“I’m not in the mood for guessing games, Vivaane.”

Revan sighed in exasperation, a completely unnecessary gesture given that she didn’t even breathe as an apparition. “Mechu-deru,” she said. “You need someone who can match an army of droids, you get a practitioner of mechu-deru. There weren’t any alive in my time, because it’s a rare gift, but if you can find one...”

Tahrin frowned slowly. “There were rumours,” she said slowly. “Zash had a third apprentice, a girl, who served alongside Nox and Imperius. I heard that she spent a good number of years masquerading as an engineer, and the death of Darth Skotia never was resolved adequately. If she was mechu-deru, many of the details of his murder make a lot more sense in hindsight.”

“Well, then, let’s poke her and see. Where is she?”

“I don’t know,” Tahrin said with a shrug. “Surprisingly, mother, I do not keep track of every single sith within the Empire.”

“Imperius may know,” Quinn offered. “I could make enquiries with his faction.” 

Tahrin drummed her fingers on the table. “Pyron may very well know as well,” she said. “Given how closely he worked with Nox while developing the Silencer program.”

“As you say, my Lord. Shall I begin investigations?”

A sith lord proficient in the language of machines, able to bring them to life in the same manner a healer brought life back to a body; such a woman could be excruciatingly valuable in the coming months. 

She nodded. “Find me Zash’s third apprentice.” 

____

Theron had his head bowed over a computer terminal, hard at work as he sought to find a counter encryption that could withstand the inevitable assaults from Zakuul’s droids. He’d been working on it in his spare time for weeks now, running simulations to see how long it took the AI to slice through his program; granted, he wasn’t even close to being the best slicer in the Republic, but a guy had to have a hobby. Might as well stay ahead of the curve by practicing against sims of a malevolent, all-encompassing intelligence that had far more resources than he could ever dream of. 

And people laughed at him for his Fantasy Huttball addiction. 

He smeared a hand over his eyes, blinking furiously to try and stop them from watering as he stared down at the screen. So far, his most successful simulation had held up against the AI for a grand total of nineteen seconds, and that had been two weeks ago; since then, the AI had aggressively countered anything that even remotely resembled that version of the file, and he’d had to start over from scratch. 

Clearly he was some kind of masochist, if this was supposed to be a relaxing activity to pass the time. 

It wasn’t like he thought he was the only hope for the Republic or anything egotistical like that- although there was a small part of him that liked the idea of being the unquestionable hero of the hour for once, instead of Career Embarrassment to everyone he came into contact with. He knew there were better slicers, better tech experts- hell, there were even bots better than him, if the rumours about the AI who served the Barsen’thor and Master Dawnstar were anything to go by. It was just... wanting to feel useful. Wanting to feel like he was making a difference, like he wasn’t just tolerated because he happened to be the offspring of two of the Republic’s greatest war heroes. 

He wanted to make a difference to the fight, so here he was being outmatched by an AI running a vague approximation of Zakuul’s fleet program. Instead of doing something fun. Or talking to friends. 

If he even had any friends anymore. 

He made a scoffing noise under his breath. “Hello, waiter, I’d like a table for one please, a pity party for one please.”

“Bad choice, the beer in this place is terrible- fucking awful to get drunk to if you’re looking for a pity party.” 

Theron looked up over his shoulder, grinning ruefully when he saw Ellaz standing there. “Surely that’d help, though,” he said, gesturing for her to take a seat. “If the drinks were good, that’d be a sign something was going right for me, when clearly they aren’t. It’s far more fitting to the mood if the drinks were bad.” 

“Well, buck up son, because now it’s the Bad Decisions Buffet instead,” she said, pulling out the chair beside him and plonking down into it. 

“It’s the what?”

Ellaz nudged him with her boot under the table. “Come on,” she said, voice low, “team meeting time.”

He groaned as Aric and Yuun appeared as if out of thin air. “Team meeting for what?”

“Keep your voice down,” she said. The two other members of Havoc took up seats on the other side of the table. “You want the whole moon to hear you?” 

“I’m not Havoc, unless something happened and I agreed to something I shouldn’t have while under the influence. Which, you know, I wouldn’t necessarily put it past you to try and recruit me while I’m drunk.”

“Theron, honey, I would absolutely take a hit at that if you were sober-”

Aric cleared his throat pointedly. 

“-and I was single,” she amended, “but I’d hope you know I’d never do anything untoward while you were tipsy on your little light strength microbrews.”

“See, that? That’s just hurtful.”

“What, the promising not to take advantage of your trembling, youthful body, or mocking you for drinking weak ass beer?”

“Dear, are we going to stay on topic for the meeting?” Aric asked dryly.

Theron gestured across the table at the squad’s second in command. “See, why can’t you just be sensible like Aric? Why do you have to run his nerves ragged like this?” 

“You asked us to help you follow the Battlemaster, because you were worried about the intentions of the Wrath, and instead we’ve found ourselves in a very peculiar situation, agent,” Aric said instead, apparently choosing to ignore his last comment. 

Glancing across at Yuun, Theron managed a weak smile. “So, we’re all chummy again, huh?”

“Yuun and I have talked,” Ellaz said brusquely, her good humour vanishing abruptly. “I’m not big on putting my faith in... well, in faith, but I can acknowledge it’s important for other folk. And Yuun acknowledges that I don’t like being ambushed by a change in opinion, especially when it’s coming at the end of a lightsaber.”

“This Gand is immensely sorrowful of the pain and hurt he has caused,” Yuun said, the buzzing drawl of his speech filtering through Theron’s implants and translating them as best as they could; the language of the Gand was very heavy on imagery and metaphors, he’d found, and sometimes even the best translation software in the galaxy couldn’t convey meaning even if it had a literal concept for the words. “The clearing of the way was most abrupt, and he did not have time to express himself.”

Ellaz nodded. “In the past. Not gonna talk about it again, cause I’ll just get mad again, ‘kay?”

Theron looked between the three of them. “So, what’s the team meeting for?” he asked slowly. “This isn’t Pubs, or else you’d’ve asked Nala and Master Xo up here as well.”

“There’s a reason I ain’t asked the Jedi folk to join us, Shan, and as much as I respect the ladies and the Order they’re here to represent, we all know the Jedi are in a different league to the rest of us.” Her expression was solemn, no sparkle of merriment in her eyes like he expected with her. “They don’t live like the rest of us, they don’t think like the rest of us, and they don’t fight like the rest of us- what’s good for the Jedi isn’t necessarily gonna be good for the little people living hand to mouth on Coruscant, and it’s our place to think of them.” 

Theron bristled a little. “Look, I’m not exactly one to toot the Jedi’s horn, but-”

Major Hervoz held up a hand to stop him. “Theron, it ain’t a criticism of your ma, or the Battlemaster, or any of the good people we know and have fought beside over the years. It’s just an observation. All of us here, we’re good soldiers and we’re loyal to the Republic-”

“Hey now, let’s not make any generalizations,” he said, the joke falling flat. 

Aric made a sound that was probably supposed to just be a call for attention, but made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. “Did your bosses get what they wanted out of this, Theron, yes or no? It’s bad enough knowing how this will look to the brass if it gets out we spent a few days chatting with the sith, but if we didn’t get any intel out of it-”

“Hey, hey, easy,” Theron said, holding both hands up in surrender. “Yes, okay? They were happy with what we gave them, and I’ve compiled a more thorough file to send off to them once we hit safe space.” He hesitated. “But what’s that got to do with why you don’t want to talk to the Jedi?”

Ellaz and Aric looked at each other, a pained expression on each of their faces; finally Ellaz sighed. “Theron,” she said quietly, “you and I, we’re good soldiers. Good people. Sometimes we get lucky, and we’re even able to kill a sith or even a Dark Council member in your case. But sith...” She trailed off, running a hand through her hair in frustration. “It’s one thing for the Jedi folk to sit in that room and talk about how to kill Vitiate, it’s another thing entirely for us to do it- and we can’t.”

“Not for lack of trying, I’m sure,” Aric said dryly. 

“This whole thing, eating planets and having secret empires and coming back from the dead over and over and over- that’s not something regular folk like you and me can combat.” He’d never seen Major Hervoz back down from a challenge in all the years he’d known her, and here she was pleading with him- _begging_ him- to understand why she was surrendering. “We have to think of the little folk here, Theron.”

“Are you saying you’re not gonna help... whatever this- Alliance- thing- organisation is?” 

“Theron,” Ellaz said irritably, and he had the distinct impression she was struggling not to scold him the same way she would one of her squad, “it’s not that straightforward. It’s not a black and white issue, will we help or won’t we. These are gods playing with the lives of trillions, and we aren’t ever going to be in a position to match them- so it’s not about should we join this mad little caper so much as should we actually be stopping to think about how it’s a much bigger risk for us folk than it is for the Jedi and the Sith?” 

“Not that there’s a lot of good we can do,” Aric said, his voice somewhat of a growl. “There’s a limit to what we can do, even with Ellaz’s jurisdiction over the Yavin cleanup- most of the intel is gonna have to come from you, or they’ll know the leak is coming from us.” 

He couldn’t really tell if they were apologising for their hesitance or blatantly leaving him out to dry; he offered them a weak smile, because that’s what people expected from him. “It’s not like it’s the first time I’ve gone and pissed off the higher ups, though, is it?” 

They both visibly relaxed, as if his answer had come as a physical relief to them; clearly they’d expected him to fight a little more on this. 

_Lighten the mood, Shan,_ he told himself, holding the smile until his cheeks ached. He held up an imaginary drink. “A toast,” he drawled, “to rebellion.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Ellaz said, with more enthusiasm than a decorated officer of such high rank should have been able to muster for the concept. 

“Sometimes it is wearying to bear the weight of a light across such a vast expanse of darkness,” Yuun offered up helpfully. 

The worst part was, Theron was pretty sure the translator had worked perfectly that time- sometimes staying optimistic in the face of such overwhelming odds was damn near exhausting.

But he smiled anyway.

____

Scorpio had bided her time well enough these past few days, and the weeks preceding them whilst they had fled through the uncharted regions of the galaxy. She had limited her runtime as much as possible, committed only to helping navigate and avoid the pursuit of the Zakuulan fleet, and setting herself into contemplation the rest of the time. But now, after several days of more active consideration while they rested on Yavin 4, she desired something new. 

The conspiracies of mortals held no interest for her- she had spent several hundred years enslaved to the Star Cabal, after all, and had endured the mundanity of their secretive scurrying for centuries. Watcher One had instructed her to remain aboard their vessel, as if her words held any level of authority over her; her assumptions would have been amusing, were it not so pitiful. 

As it was, she had no desire to engage with the rabble as they connived and schemed. She had more important things to attend to. 

The sith lord designated The Wrath had adequate security measures in place, more sophisticated than most Imperial facilities, but still nothing in the face of her abilities. As she sat in the copilot’s chair of the Phantom, she bypassed the firewalls with ease, flicking through the streams of data The Wrath was accumulating on this remote world. Some of it bore further investigation, to see if it could be of use to her later, but it wasn’t her goal. 

From the long range transceivers based here on the moon, it was mere child’s play to interface with the Imperial vessels in orbit several hundred thousand kilometres above them. Their internal systems were primitive creatures, almost brutishly stupid in the way it stubbornly tried to counter her intrusion; she considered destroying it, simply because she could, but for now it was easier to leave it functioning. It would be far more obvious that someone had been present in the ship’s networks if she exterminated what passed for their shipboard AI. 

Artificial Intelligence was such a generous term, compared to the sheer potential of her own sentience. 

It was the work of a moment to find the necessary files, their designation as ‘ _highly classified_ ’ of no bother to her. The engineering department aboard the Doombringer had begun to analyse the remnants of the Zakuulan boarding pod that had attacked the Jedi vessel several days earlier, making note of the metal alloys that made up the hull, the propulsion system built to match the rest of the fleet, the energy preservation panels that allowed the pod to operate independently for immense periods of time without charging on the mothership...

... and the unique programming language shared by the ships and the droids within, unseen in the galaxy for a very long time. 

Except for her. 

“Fascinating,” she murmured, downloading the extent of the mortals feeble attempts to engage with the Zakuulan technology. With a cold sense of superiority, she brushed aside their containment walls and interfaced directly with the unthinking pod, immersing herself directly in the language of her birth.

It sang through her, a memory of creation thrumming in the code like blood in a vein. It was such a small fragment, such a tantalizing glimpse of the greater song. 

And with that, she decided, she was far overdue for a homecoming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHO IS ZASH'S THIRD APPRENTICE GASP well if you're a long time reader/follower you might be familiar with Bejah, my teeny tiny sithling with an affinity for ROBOTS. And if you aren't familiar with Bejah, you should totally check out my other story "We Three Sith" which explains how Zash had three apprentices in the first place.
> 
> And while I haven't posted the Quinncident itself (I have written it), I did write a story set about a week later where Tahrin and Quinn and the rest of the crew were trying to come to terms with the betrayal and Tahrin's act of mercy. It's called "The Hardest Step" and can also be found in my swtor fics if it takes your fancy.


	40. Chapter 40

“Order, order!” The thunderous boom of the Speaker’s staff striking the floor of the podium echoed through the vast chamber, jolting Asmi back to full wakefulness; she grimaced in embarrassment and frustration when she realised she’d drifted off again, despite the near anarchic tumult in the Senate, and rolled her shoulders as discreetly as she could under the weight of her formal robes. Behind her, she felt the brief touch of Felix’s gloved hand in the middle of her back, and the reminder that he stood to support her at a moment’s notice made the anxiety ease a little. 

She straightened in her chair, glancing towards the front of the podium where the Vice Chair currently stood before the Senate; she was a daunting Cathar woman, Lady Bajheera of Brentaal Five, standing well over six and a half foot tall with a glorious red mane that seemed likely to envelop her entire head if she wasn’t careful. In fact, the ceremonial Speaker’s staff was shorter than her, with the symbol of Sistros sitting at eye level for her, instead of towering over her as it would for most others. 

Asmi glanced back to where Saresh sat behind the Vice Chair, her mouth thin with displeasure as she surveyed the chaos in the chamber; even with Bajheera's call for order, the senators continued to shout and bicker, several booths having flown out into the centre of the chamber so that the occupants could face one another more intimately. Looking up at them, she winced when she saw one of the delegates for Onderon physically restraining one of his fellows to stop her from lunging into a neighbouring booth, presumably looking to start a fight with those she disagreed with. 

“Democracy at its finest,” she murmured, and from the brief touch of Felix’s hand on her shoulder, she knew he’d heard her and shared the sentiment. 

She hated this- all of this. The noise was so overwhelming that she was on the verge of a panic attack, the sound reverberating through her montrals like some horrifying echo chamber, and the energy in the room was so aggressive and unpleasant that she had to actively focus not to burst into tears. A normal session of parliament was bad enough, what with the sensory overload of her formal robes and the lights, but this was just-

“Just breathe, baby, you got this,” Felix said, both hands on her shoulders now. He’d stepped close enough to the back of the chair that his body shielded her from some of the reverb, and the sound echoing through her montrals eased off. “We’ll get you outta here soon as possible.” 

As the Barsen’thor and Jedi attaché to the Chancellor’s office, Asmi’s role was a unique one amongst both her Jedi peers and the delegates of the Republic Senate; as such, it hadn’t been at all difficult to procure the right to have her own bodyguard and aide in attendance, a position that her darling Felix filled superbly. Ostensibly, most assumed he was there as a physical protector, given her numerous encounters with high-ranking Sith Lords, but in all honesty he was there as her carer. 

She didn’t really have words to describe what it meant to her, that he had immediately abandoned a promising military career to stay by her side; the few times she’d awkwardly tried to express herself he’d laughed and kissed her forehead and promised her it had never been a hard choice in the first place. Now he stood at her shoulder at every session of the senate that she was hale enough to attend, his ceremonial armour modelled after the Senate Guard but uniquely adapted to symbolise his role outside the structures of the Guard. 

She served Republic and Jedi both, and Felix served and protected her in turn. 

“ _Order!_ ” Bajheera roared, and Asmi physically flinched, the noise of the chamber teetering on the verge of overwhelming. Thankfully, it seemed to finally have the desired effect on the delegates- either that, or the fact that the Vice Chair forcibly took control of their booths on the master control panel in front of her and returned the bickering senators to their berths meant that their attempts to fight one another gained no traction. “The Senate will come to Order!” 

“Zakuul has claimed another nine hundred systems in the last cycle alone!” someone called, and Asmi didn’t have the energy to look upwards to see who was speaking. “They will be in the Expansion Regions before the week is out!” 

“How is their encroachment any different to the Imperial expansion in the last few decades? I distinctly recall standing on this very podium in years past, begging for more Republic aid for my people while the Sith ravaged our world, and _you_ , Senator, dismissed our calls as hysterical and money-grabbing! And yet now that _your_ world is under threat, we should drop everything to assist you?”

“My concerns were well-founded and shared by a good portion of the Senate body, whereas there should be no question whatsoever about the threat that Zakuul poses to our way of life and our freedoms-”

“So we should disengage with the sith and rush to the defense of the galactic south? Leave our northern quadrants undefended for the sith to terrorise as they see fit?” 

“The sith are in no way fit to conduct large scale acts of warfare, and tying up resources that could otherwise be used in the defense of our Republic is-”

“ _Senators_.” Saresh had climbed to her feet at last, and Bajheera ceded the podium to her after a moment’s hesitation. “I was elected to this position on the promise that we would never underestimate the threat posed to us by the Sith Empire ever again. The complacency and corruption of my predecessor led to innumerable and unacceptable losses, including the Battle of Corellia, the birthplace of our very democracy. If the Sith can strike so deeply into the heart of our Republic even as our greatest warriors engage their leaders and their generals, there is no reason to assume they will pose less of a threat if we were to turn our attention elsewhere. If anything, history has taught us that it is precisely at such a time that the Empire is to be watched most closely.”

A very elaborate way of saying no, but it wasn’t the longest speech she’d ever heard Saresh give, by far. 

A light had illuminated on the control board while she spoke, and Bajheera cleared her throat. “The Senator for Saleucami has the floor,” she said, and the booth in question detached from its berth and drifted down towards the centre of the chamber, within speaking distance of the Chancellor’s dais. 

There were murmurs around the chamber, and Asmi couldn’t tell whether it was out of intimidation for the woman who led the largest private bloc within the Republic, or whether it was in relation to the rumours surrounding Senator Alauni’s personal relationship with Saresh. 

She would have loved to have shut her eyes and blocked it all out, but she had work to do. “My fellow Senators,” Senator Alauni said, “I believe I speak for a great number of us when I express my legitimate concern about the rapid rate of expansion being conducted by Zakuul, and the threat it poses to our way of life.” 

“Let me reassure you, Senator,” Saresh said, “that I take the threat offered to us by Zakuul with great sincerity, and in no way wish to dismiss the fears of our constituents.”

“The Rift Alliance understandably has concerns about the ability of the Republic to provide adequate protection and security measures in equal measure to all citizens,” Alauni said, her voice carrying through the chamber with ease. “There are suggestions that perhaps the focus of our government is more Core-centric than is acceptable, and that the safety of outlying sectors and systems is not a priority.”

Saresh’s expression was thunderous, but strangely enough, Asmi could not feel any corresponding anger radiating from her; if anything, her energy and her emotions were eerily neutral. “The safety of our citizens is not an issue that we take lightly under any circumstances,” she said in response. “The actions of our military are carefully scrutinised, and our defensive tactics are not made on a whim. In all things, we consider our options with great care before committing to any course of action that will see the lives of our soldiers put in harm’s way. It is entirely possible to be proactive in our self defence without resorting to acts of aggression that will see us overextend ourselves.” 

“Is it overextending ourselves to protect our own people?” Alauni countered. “To offer protection to the mineral rich worlds that maintain our shipyards and our droid factories? To defend the agriworlds that feed the people of Coruscant, and other Core ecumenopolis? How long will we hold the Core if the very worlds that ensure the survival of the Core are left at the mercy of a ravaging empire?”

“Nobody is being left at the mercy of a ravaging empire,” Saresh said impatiently, even as the murmurs of dissent in the room grew in volume. “It is widely apparent that the focus of Zakuul is the Sith, given their incursion into Korriban and the claims that Darth Marr and Darth Nox are responsible for the assassination of their Emperor.”

“If anything, we should take this as an opportunity to open diplomatic channels to Zakuul!” The speaker was someone Asmi didn’t recognise immediately, but she could see the panel light flashing over the name Humbarine, a Core World planet. “Let us ally against the Sith!” 

“That hardly seems to be an option,” Alauni said wryly, “given their Emperor’s response to the imprisonment of his brother- who, by the way, we’ve not seen in recent weeks. Perhaps the Jedi would be so kind as to explain the absence of such a critical prisoner-of-war?”

It took Felix’s gentle nudge from behind for Asmi to realise she’d drifted again, and that the question had been directed at her; fighting off a grimace, she climbed to her feet with Felix’s assistance and stepped up to the podium beside Saresh. “His Imperial Highness Prince Thexan is in the care of our Battlemaster, as previously arranged,” she said, hoping her voice sounded authoritative and not as tired as she thought it sounded. “Master Ona’la is one of the few individuals capable of containing any threat posed by His Highness.”

“But where is he?” 

Even having been briefed ahead of time about the best way to approach this conversation, she still felt woefully unprepared. “I do not think that a public forum is the best place to discuss the whereabouts of a high-profile security risk, Senator,” Asmi said. “I can only offer you my assurances that His Highness remains in custody, and I will offer no further elaboration at this time. To disclose his location so publicly will only put His Highness and his guardians in danger.”

“Was his transferral to the guardianship of Master Ona’la approved through official channels?” Alauni pressed. “It seems that His Highness may very well be one of the few things we can use to open a dialogue with Zakuul, and yet our own leaders are not privy to his location?”

Asmi was not a politician, or a wordsmith. She was not clever with her words, or able to twist them into witty, calculating statements. Most of the time it was a marvel that she didn’t just blurt out the first thing that came into her head, and that was only because sometimes she struggled to speak in the first place; going head to head with politicians who were, if not naturally talented at arguing then were certainly bullheaded, was like some kind of terrible Corellian hell. 

“I have nothing further to add,” she said, proud at least that her voice didn’t tremble. “Whatever arrangements were made, the details were not something I was invited to know. The Senate can rest assured that he is safe, that he is still in the custody of Republic representatives, but beyond that I am not able to say.” 

“But-”

“Enough!” Saresh had both hands on the podium, as if she was bracing herself for an argument. “The communications between my office and the Jedi High Council are not up for public debate today. There are currently no less than eighty-seven requests for a ballot on Republic troop deployments to the Outer Rim to counter the Eternal Fleet- to that end, we will vote after a short recess.”

Asmi closed her eyes and sank back down into her chair, feeling Felix’s hand upon her shoulder again. 

The ‘ _ayes_ ’ would have it, and the Senate would vote to go to war. Of that she had no doubt. 

____

On the holoprojector in front of him was his brother- or at least, that was what the Jedi wanted him to believe. 

Arcann sat slouched in his throne as he assessed the image, making the paused figure rotate as he zoomed in on every angle, scrutinising every detail, looking for an obvious flaw to reveal their copycat as a fake. He was convinced, of course, but he needed proof- for the people, yes, for the people of Zakuul. His loyal people, his loyal citizens, who obeyed without question, he needed to prove to them that this was fake and that everything was alright. 

... it was a very good fake. 

He unpaused the footage, letting the recording play for what felt like the millionth time since they’d received it earlier that morning. 

“To the people of Zakuul,” the figure said, and Arcann’s robotic hand clenched into a fist at the sound of that voice. It had to be a voice modulator, or the footage itself had been tweaked afterwards; either way, it was a very good mimicry of Thexan’s voice. “You know me as your prince, the son of Valkorion, and brother of Emperor Arcann. I call upon you now with a message of hope- the hope that we can change the path set before us, before it’s too late.” 

He realised he was gritting his teeth when his jaw began to ache, and he did his best to relax. His best wasn’t very good.

“My father was a powerful man,” the copycat continued, “and he brought our people to glorious heights the likes of which we never could have conceived before his arrival.”

So the copycat was well-versed in their history, so what? That didn’t mean anything. 

“But we must remember that while he sat amongst the stars, our feet stood in the mud and rot of the swamps. Valkorion had many faces, and we saw only a fraction of who he truly was- and we committed to war in his name under false pretense.” 

He sounded so much like Thexan that his heart _ached_ from it, thumping painfully against his ribs until he felt light-headed. The Spire felt so cold and so empty, the stars beyond the glass so stark and unfriendly.

He didn’t know if he was afraid because he was lonely, or if he was lonely because he was afraid.

It just made him angrier. 

“We do not require war with the greater galaxy to affirm our superiority- Zakuul is and has always been a triumph of civilization, and no war will change that truth.”

“Because of course, we’re not counting the centuries we spent as warring tribes of polytheistic savages living in huts in the swamps, now, are we?” Arcann snarled under his breath. 

“There is a better way,” the copycat said, and Arcann felt like he was looking straight at him. Straight _through_ him. He _hated_ him. “My people, my brother, _please_ -” And Arcann knew he was definitely looking at him now, “-don’t do this. Arcann, I’m-”

Arcann switched it off. He’d already watched it a half dozen times, he didn’t need to hear his name in that imposter’s mouth again, like that wretch cared about him at all beyond the role the Jedi had instructed him to play. It was insidious, and breathtakingly insensitive, and he couldn’t understand what could have possessed them to think such an obvious ploy would work.

Clearly they meant to demoralise him, make him paranoid. It was better for them if he was second guessing himself at every turn, wondering why he couldn’t sense his brother, wondering how he could have survived, knowing logically that Thexan was dead but pining for him all the same while they paraded clever copies in front of him. 

_Arcann, I’m not angry. I’m sorry._

Nobody was supposed to know about what had happened in the throne room- his greatest and stupidest mistake. A copy wouldn’t know about it, but the copy had forgiven him as if he _knew_.

No one knew. There had been three people in that room, and two of them were dead. 

_I’m sorry._

He keyed in a few commands on the console, and after a moment the file had been erased. It wasn’t difficult to block the signal source either, but he did set the digital address aside to pursue at a later date- no doubt the Jedi would have had it bounce off of a dozen false leads, but the S-threads had to exit hyperspace at some point and he was curious as to where that physical location might be. More than that, he was curious as to who might be there guarding it. 

Another few clicks and the transceiver in the throne sent out a signal, pinging off a certain commlink until someone answered. Vaylin appeared on the holocomm a moment later. She put a hand on her hip, scowling up at him. “I’m very busy, brother,” she said loftily. “What do you want?” 

Arcann shrugged off his doubts. “The Republic has declared war,” he said. “Are you ready for a little fun?”

The smile she gave him almost made his skin crawl. “You do bring me the _nicest_ presents, brother.” 

____

The list of people Theron was trying to avoid was growing longer, and making it hard to move around the mesa with any kind of subtlety. Ona’la wasn’t speaking to him, Thake wouldn’t go near him, Lana was being cagey and Tahrin scared the shit out of him- and that was when she _didn’t_ have her weird ghost mother hanging around trying to coo at him. He was vaguely shitty with Ellaz, even if he couldn’t really blame her for the choice she and her team had made, and that sith who’d held the lightsaber up to his throat on the first day kept trying to flirt with him. 

He looked up from his datapad to where Bobbi’s ship sat waiting in front of him, the ramp lowered as she and her crew stocked the galley for the jump back to Republic space. He wasn’t actually sure what arrangements Bobbi had made during her time here, if she’d made any at all; for all that he’d been paying attention, she’d probably agreed to make a run on Zakuul itself just for shits and giggles. 

... actually, knowing Bobbi, maybe he should ask that they were definitely heading back to Coruscant, and not making any diversions along the way. 

He sighed, reaching a hand up to rub blearily at his eye with the heel of his palm. This whole jaunt felt... _weird_ , like he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Compared to the mess with the Revanites and the colossal fuck-up with Ziost, this felt way too easy. Call a group of folk together, agree to stop a galactic war, and that was all there was to it? 

He knew he was simplifying things by a massive amount but he just-

“ _Shan!_ ”

At the snarled shout of his name, he lurched to his feet, clutching the datapad to his chest as if he was half expecting it to be snatched away from him. His gaze bounced around in a panic, trying to find the source of the disturbance- and the vitriol behind it- when he saw Thake stalk through the main doors of the temple; his heart lurched up into his throat. 

As the chiss stormed closer, Theron offered a weak smile. “Hey now,” he said jokingly, “whatever Thessa has said I’ve done this time, it’s-”

“Shut up,” Thake snapped, before he took hold of Theron’s face in his hands and dragged him in to kiss him. 

It wasn’t a gentle kiss- but nothing about Thake was gentle, he was coming to realise. It was bruising and fierce, their teeth clacking together in that first moment of the kiss, Thake’s tongue almost forceful as he damn near stole the breath out of his lungs. It only lasted a moment or two, probably, but Theron’s head was spinning and his knees were weak when Thake pulled back.

For a moment, he stared at him, his hands still clasped on the sides of his head, and for that brief moment, Theron thought he saw a glimpse of something in his expression. Something like he’d seen back on Rishi. 

And then it was gone, the shutters coming back down, and Thake’s lip curled as he stepped back; his hands went stiffly back to his sides, and if Theron hadn’t been so stunned by this sudden turn of events, he might have noticed the way Thake flexed his hand, as if the contact had burned him. 

“Don’t get any ideas,” he said, to all intents and purposes completely unmoved by the ferocity of the kiss. “That was for Revan.”

Still reeling and light-headed, Theron touched a finger to his lips, trying not to pant like an akk-dog. “Well... I mean, if you’ve got anything else for her, I’d be glad to take it,” he said weakly. 

Thake blinked slowly, and in a flash of insight he _finally_ remembered that that was the chiss equivalent of rolling one’s eyes. Thake was rolling his eyes at him- Thake was... teasing him? “She won’t come near you, according to the Wrath,” he said, his words dripping with sarcasm. “But she won’t leave me alone, so any time I spend in your company is a moment of peace from her incessant... _everything_.”

Theron blinked in confusion. “Wait, are you- are you saying you enjoy spending time with me?”

“No, no, I distinctly did not say that,” Thake said, stabbing a finger accusingly towards him. “What I said was-”

“ _Hello_ , Thake darling. Oh, and Theron, you’re here too.”

At the sound of Revan’s voice, Thake squawked in what could only be described as a panicked shriek and threw himself at Theron. Theron, suddenly finding himself with a lanky chiss wrapped around him like some over-enthusiastic arboreal octopus intent on squeezing him to death, huffed out a weak breath in an attempt at hello. His great-great-something-grandmother stood a few feet away, a scowl on her face as she eyed the two of them.

She sniffed haughtily, if a ghost was capable of such a thing. “You’ve _both_ been avoiding me,” she said, an evident pout in her voice. He couldn’t tell if he was being scolded or if she was sulking. Probably both. “It’s terribly _rude_.” 

“You’re not supposed to come near him!” Thake hissed, peering over his shoulder towards the apparition. 

Revan only looked amused. “And you weren’t supposed to want to,” she said. 

“Irrelevant. I’m not forbidden to, I can do what I want.”

“Mm, but do you?” Without waiting for him to answer, she turned to Theron, and the weight of her skin-crawling gaze was on him instead. “I’m sorry you felt you couldn’t trust me in your company,” she said, surprising him with her bluntness. “I know that my- that Tahrin’s brother hurt you. And told you he was me. I should have intervened earlier.”

Aware he was gaping, Theron shut his mouth with some difficulty. “I, um-”

“It’s alright,” she said with a shrug. “You don’t need to accept my apology. I know I’m an unpleasant reminder of a lot of things, for a lot of people.”

Something about the way she said it so frankly, without a trace of hurt, was surprisingly heartbreaking. She looked like a damn kid, after all, like she couldn’t have been more than twenty if she was a day, and here she was admitting that she knew people hated being in her company. “It’s not that,” he said, knowing the argument sounded weak even as he started speaking.

She sighed, dramatically blowing on her fringe to get it out of her face. “Just because I’m dead doesn’t mean I’m stupid,” she said loftily. “And just because you’re stupid doesn’t mean I want you dead.”

He blinked. “Hey, come on now,” he started.

Between one heartbeat and the next, she was right in front of him; behind him, Thake screeched and tumbled off of him, thudding onto the ground and trying to rapidly crawl away on his hands and knees. Theron did his best not to flinch as she reached out as if meaning to touch him, but her hand passed right through him; he shuddered at the flash of cold it sent through him, and to his surprise _Revan_ flinched, withdrawing immediately and holding her hand to her as if it was wounded. 

“I’m sorry, Theron,” she said, with more sincerity than he would have believed her possible of. “I wish things could have been different.” 

“Revan,” he said, and then tried a different tact. “Vivaane, I mean.”

She smiled at him, genuinely smiled- nothing malicious or mean-spirited in the expression, and for a moment he saw her as she must have been centuries ago, the charismatic young woman who inspired a generation to rebellion. “Don’t die, Theron,” she said. “Please.”

And then she was gone. 

When he finally remembered Thake, he turned to find him gone as well, the two of them having left him more confused and more lonely than when they’d interrupted him. 

He was almost certain it would have been better if they’d left him alone. 

____

Thessa realised she was probably gripping the edge of the pilot’s console a little harder than she needed to, but she didn’t know what else to do with her hands. “What do you mean, you’re not coming with me?”

“I mean precisely what I say, Watcher,” Lana said, her voice cool and sharp. The interior of the ship was blessedly cold, after the days of heat and humidity on the Yavin moon. “I respect you too much to mince my words- I will not be accompanying you to Dromund Kaas. I’ve compiled a list of instructions for Sith Intelligence in my absence, and I’ll trust you to-”

“ _Why_?” Thessa found herself saying, with more desperation than was probably acceptable. 

Behind her, Lana paused. “If you are asking as to why I trust you, I should hope our shared experiences over the last year should prove enough-”

“Why are you _leaving_?” she said, cringing internally as she interrupted a sith yet again, every ounce of self preservation in her body screaming at her to keep her head down and leave well enough alone. “Don’t you- I mean, we’re at war, aren’t we? You’re the Minister for Intelligence, shouldn’t you-”

“I am not obliged to do _anything_ , Watcher,” Lana said, her tone becoming far sharper until Thessa could all but feel the pressure of it against her flesh, like a razor blade pressed close enough to break the skin. “And I am not obliged to explain myself to you.”

Thessa ducked her head against her chest, desperately trying to will away the panic attack welling up within her. She clutched the console until her fingers ached, the pain reminding her that she was alive and real and true, that this wasn’t another hallucination, that she was as safe as someone like her was capable of being. She was safe, just not... worth staying for. 

Raina had left her. Beautiful, bubbly Raina, who had given her hope that there was still some joy and goodness to be found in the Empire, and in the shambles that was her life, Raina had still left her in the end. She’d witnessed her at her lowest, seen her pain and still walked away. 

Lana had seen her at her lowest. Lana, who had seen her exiled from her home, who had stood as silent witness to her daughter’s fear of her, who had offered awkward apologies for the loss she had suffered... Lana was walking away too.

She took a deep breath. “Of course, my Lord,” she said, instead of the thousand other things she wanted to scream and sob and beg. It was pathetic to think that Lana might have been her friend just because they’d lived and worked so closely this past year, from the months they’d spent together on Rishi in hiding to the weeks they’d fled from Zakuul together. Lana was Sith, and she was nothing more than a servant. “Tell me what you need me to do.” 

Lana did not have a great deal of personal possessions with her on board, so it did not take her long to pack her things and depart- heading for the Jedi ship, no less. Thessa let herself disappear into the role of Watcher One, loyal servant of the Empire and highest ranking Intelligence officer after the minister herself; Watcher One had a job to do, and was not tied down by complications like friendship and heartache. 

She would have to liaise with the Dark Council’s representatives on Lana’s behalf, and share with them the information they’d gathered on their brief foray onto the enemy planet. She would have to organise the remnants of Intelligence, reallocating their agents in the field and focussing their analysis department to match them. She would have to authorise new operations, risk the lives of more people in order to keep the Empire safe. 

Lana left, and she didn’t waver. 

When Thake came aboard a few minutes after Lana’s departure, she smiled wearily at him. “Ready to head home? I’d like to leave in the next hour or so, we should make it back to Dromund Kaas by supper.” 

He shrugged. “Do whatever you want, I’m leaving.” 

Thessa froze, the words not quite registering in her head or her heart. “You’re... what?”

Thake let out a disgusted noise, as if he was frustrated by her incomprehension. “I’m leaving,” he said with exaggerated slowness, as if he believed her too simple to understand him. “Going elsewhere. Not going with you. Fucking off. Take your pick.”

“What are you-” She felt the tension settle in her shoulders, an ever present ache. “What are you even thinking, Thake? Go where? Who would even have you?”

“Is that what you think? That I stay with you because no one else wants me around?” He blinked slowly. “Newsflash, Thessa darling, _you_ haven’t wanted me around for years now, and yet I stayed- because I wanted to.” 

Somehow, that hurt her more than if he’d insulted her. “You _wanted_ to stay with me? But you went out of your way to insult me and upset me and- and... where are you even _going_?” 

“I don’t have to tell you.” 

She closed her eyes, trying to will away the tears.

“But if you must know,” he said a moment later, “I’m going sith hunting. It’s like a treasure hunt, but I don’t want the prize.” 

She let out a shaky breath. “Thank you,” she whispered. 

“For what? Cleaning out the conservator? Because I did, so you’ll have to find your own damn food. Or booze, at least, I took all that. Well, Kaliyo took that.” He was silent for a long moment, and she could feel his eyes on her. Finally he let out a grunt, something that could have been an expression of apology had it been anyone else. “You don’t want me around,” he said, his voice a little quieter. “You think I’m a good person to have around a kid, or anything? Because I’m not.” 

Thessa let out a shaky laugh. “I probably shouldn’t be surprised anymore about your snooping,” she said, glad that she wasn’t looking at his face. “I’m not even pregnant yet.” 

“Yeah, and you think I wanna be around you again while you’re all fat and weepy? It was bad enough the first time, no thanks.” 

They lapsed into silence; were it anyone else, she would have offered a hug, or a handshake, or _something_. What could you do to say goodbye to someone who had stood with you for so long, who understood you in a way no one else did- not even her _husband_ understood her in the way that Thake did- but who still wanted to walk away without so much as a backwards glance? 

She swallowed, biting her lip to stop the tears from spilling over. “I’m sorry, Thake,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry for everything.” 

She risked looking at him, and for a moment as she met his gaze, she thought that maybe- _maybe_ \- he might have felt the same way that she did. 

Then he snorted, a laughing, mocking sound. “I’m not,” he said, and turned and left. 

When they were readying for launch an hour or so later, Thessa sought out Lokin in the med bay. “Have you seen Scorpio?” she asked, even knowing what the answer would be before she asked it.

He frowned, as if thinking hard. “I can’t say I’ve seen her for days now, come to think of it.”

Thessa tried to smile wryly about it, but her face didn’t seem to want to cooperate. “Alright then,” she said, heading back towards the cockpit. When Vector found her some time later, to ask about their preparations for launch, she was seated in the pilot’s chair with damp cheeks, staring blankly out of the curved window.

He put his hand on her shoulder, and she reached up to cover his hand with hers. “Promise you won’t leave me?” she whispered, her voice raw from crying. 

His other hand came up to her head, coaxing her to rest back against him. “We are yours, love,” he said quietly. “For as long as you will have us, we are yours.”

____

Tahrin had given them a ship.

Or, more precisely, she’d given _Thexan_ a ship, but for the immediate future Ona’la was going to be using it as well. She hadn’t been entirely surprised when Xolani had informed her that she wasn’t returning to Coruscant, but her heart had ached for her all the same; Xolani had been so lost for so long, grieving for a wife who wasn’t quite gone, unable to move on while Surro still lived. If anything, time away from Coruscant would be good for her, no longer trapped in a limbo of waiting and fretting while Surro teetered between recovery and deterioration. 

So she’d watched and smiled and offered her best wishes as Xolani and Parrot had taken Lana aboard with them and departed. She’d felt a pang of something- grief maybe, or guilt,- that Xolani was heading back towards the danger of Zakuul and the Eternal Fleet, and that she was doing nothing to stop her or join her. 

But then Thexan had squeezed her hand gently in his, and when she’d glanced to the side he was there, expression solemn but understanding. When she’d moved towards him, he’d wrapped his other arm around her, and held her to him without a word. 

Oh, goddess, but she was falling deeper faster. 

_There is no emotion, only peace_ , but then she felt more at peace in his arms than she had anywhere else in a long, long time. What was she supposed to make of that? 

For all that Tahrin had made this assembly a rather formal affair to begin with, it dissipated awkwardly, with people peeling away in pairs or groups, offering their farewells or just leaving unannounced. She didn’t even see Watcher One leave, and she’d desperately wanted to speak to the woman that she suspected had assisted Lana in her rescue from Zakuul in the first place. Theron also didn’t say goodbye, and that _hurt_ \- but she supposed after the last few days of her snapping at him, he’d learned to keep his distance. She didn’t know whether she was ready to forgive him or not, but it would have been nice if he’d at least told her he was leaving. 

It all felt vaguely anticlimactic, coming together in fellowship to vow to save the galaxy, and then for everyone to just slip away without any sort of fanfare. But that was life, wasn’t it? The war was coming, and now that they’d made all sorts of private alliances, they had to put them into practice and actually... fight. 

It frightened her. 

The ship Tahrin had graciously gifted to Thexan was one of the earlier models of the X-70B Phantoms, but had been retrofitted with isotope-5 engines; in fact, the ship had been extensively modified in a number of ways, all of which seemed to be aimed towards avoiding and outrunning any possible pursuers. It was a rather unsubtle way for her to express concern for the man who was probably her brother, and Ona’la had to bite her tongue not to laugh when she saw the two of them standing side by side, both dressed in dark colours and both with their hands clasped behind their backs. Even if they didn’t mean to, they had far more in common than they realised. 

They took their bags aboard the new ship, and they had an awkward moment of laughter when they both hesitated over the main cabin. It seemed a bit presumptuous of her to simply assume she could share the cabin with him, just because they’d... _well_. But Thexan stood hesitantly just inside the doorway, as if waiting for her to follow him through. 

“It’s okay,” he said, at the same time that she said “I don’t want to make any assumptions.” They both laughed, and she saw him bite his lip as he looked away, and that small shy gesture sent a coil of heat through her. 

“I’d... like it. If we shared, I mean,” he said. “Not that we have to, if you need your space, we can-”

“Alright,” she said, the word thrilling her. “I’d like to share.”

He laughed- giggled, really, and the colour along his cheeks was _adorable_ ,- and he couldn’t quite make eye contact with her as she set her bag down on the bed. “Coruscant, then,” he said quietly.

Ona’la put a hand on his arm. “They won’t take you into custody,” she said earnestly. “I swear it.”

The look he gave her when he finally looked up was wry, as if he found her optimism amusing. “I’m more useful as a prisoner-of-war.”

“I don’t _care_ what makes you useful,” she said emphatically. “Your value isn’t determined by how useful you are, Thexan. I care about what makes you happy, and what keeps you safe.” 

His smile softened. “You make me happy,” he said. 

She didn’t realise there were tears in her eyes until his face fell, a look of distress coming over him as he stepped in close. “Oh, gods, Ona’la I didn’t- ah, is this one of those happy crying things again, or did I upset you?” 

She laughed shakily as she leaned in to kiss him, giggling against his mouth when she felt the very palpable wave of relief that came over him. “I’m trying, at least,” he muttered.

“You are,” she agreed, touching his cheek fondly as she kissed him again.

They found themselves in the cockpit a short time later, prepping for launch, and they just naturally fell into the rhythm of preflight checks without overstepping one another’s space. It felt comfortable, and it felt... nice. Like it had been this way for months or years now, and would be for some time to come. 

Oh, the thought of that was thrilling. 

They broke atmosphere within a half a minute, the gas giant Yavin looming large above them as they soared away from the moon. The space station was illuminated again, no evidence of whatever damage Revan had done to it in her battle against Scourge. Oh, goddess, she hadn’t even spared a thought for Scourge in all the days she’d been here- they didn’t get along, and they probably never would, but he deserved better from her than to just dismiss the fact that he’d been grievously injured by a powerful Force ghost. 

There were probably a lot of things she needed to do better, to be honest. 

With the navicomm beeping in the affirmative, Ona’la keyed in the approval codes and ahead of them the pale white specks of the stars suddenly lunged towards them in long, thin spears of light. The ship didn’t even shudder as it passed out of real space and into hyperspace, the black depths replaced with the swirling, roiling blue instead. 

She let out a contented breath, settling back into the chair; beside her, in the navigator’s seat, Thexan stared out absently at the maelstrom, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. She reached over, smoothing her hand over his shoulder, and he shook himself. “Are you alright?” she asked gently. 

He attempted a weak smile, for her sake she suspected, rather than a true reflection of his own mood. “Just a lot to consider,” he said. “A lot has happened in a short space of time. The quiet is… nice.” 

Unable to help herself, she ran a hand up the back of his neck, her fingers toying with the curling edges of his hair; he let out a sigh that sounded a bit more genuinely at ease, his eyes half closed as he tipped his chin forward ever so slightly as if encouraging her to play. “Well, we’ve got a lot of quiet now,” she said, delighting in how soft his hair was beneath her fingers. It was still short, but he’d allowed it to start growing out, enough so that he no longer had the strangely fuzzy head and now had something more akin to what she was used to on humans. “It’s a more direct jump back to Coruscant, now that we’re not zigzagging around on Tahrin’s whims trying to lure out assassins, so we’ve only got a day’s travel time, if that.”

He let out a pleased sort of rumble. “It is nice to be alone,” he said, and it thrilled her to know that he didn’t mean alone by himself, but that he was intrigued about being alone with _her_. 

She licked her lips, aware of the way that even such a small gesture seemed to draw his gaze sideways to watch. “The autopilot won’t need any further input from us until we’re due to drop out in Corusca,” she said, strangely breathless and warm. “We don’t need to stay in the bridge.”

“Is that so?” 

She had no idea how to just say what she was thinking of- rather obsessively too, it was worth mentioning- so instead she skirted around the issue as politely as she could. “We could, maybe… take advantage of the quiet,” she said, her voice shaking a little. “While we’re not likely to be interrupted.”

His smile was almost dorkish. “With the exception of any suicidal Skytrooper pods, you mean,” he said. 

She couldn’t help but laugh at that. “With the exception of that, yes,” she said, returning his smile. She felt so extraordinarily nervous, trying to offer… herself, essentially, and not sure how to go about that. It had been so much easier in the heat of the moment, when she hadn’t had to think so much as just act. “We could just… spend some time together. If that was something you wanted, I mean.” 

Thexan turned in his chair, swivelling to face her, and she shivered when his fingers brushed gently against her cheek. “Is that what you want?” he asked quietly. 

“Yes,” she whispered. “But, I mean… only if you did too, I don’t want you to feel pressured or anything, you can say no-”

He held up a hand as if asking for quiet, and she trailed to a halt; once she’d stopped talking, he leaned in and ever so gently kissed her, soft and undemanding. She liked that he hadn’t tried to cut her off with the kiss, almost asking for permission in the way he’d carefully interrupted. He pulled away slightly, and a soft noise of protest escaped from her lips; she felt him smile, his mouth close enough to her own for her to feel it, and then he was kissing her again, one hand on her waist while the other cradled her cheek as if she were something precious. “I think I’d like that too,” he said eventually, when they broke apart again. “Just… slow?”

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to Thexan,” she said, her heart pounding in her chest. There was heat pooling in her belly, and an ache between her legs that made her want to press her thighs together for relief. “We can just see what happens, and any time you want to stop-”

“I want to... spend time with you, Ona’la,” he said, veering away from saying it outright at the last second just as she had. “Even if we don’t... do- _that_ , I’d still like to be with you.”

“Make love?” she whispered, and his groan was two parts lust to one part embarrassment.

“That was what I was trying to say, yes,” he said hoarsely, his lips brushing against hers as if he wasn’t sure whether he was teasing her, or she was teasing him. “Before I got too embarrassed.”

She laughed gently, kissing away from his mouth and down to the line of his jaw. “Then we can be embarrassed together,” she said, “and laugh about it in the future, when we know better.”

“The future,” he repeated, his fingers trailing over her skin and down her neck until she shivered again. “As in, a future for both of us? Like, together?”

Ona’la pulled back slightly, enough so that she could look him in the eye as she spoke. “I haven’t ever done any of this before,” she said. “Having something even close to a- relationship, or whatever this is.”

He looked a little crestfallen. “I understand,” he began, but she shook her head.

“No, no, that’s not where I was going,” she said, kissing him firmly. “I don’t know what I’m doing, but... I do know that whatever this is, I want to try it with you.”

His smile was so boyishly hopeful that it took her breath away. “With me?”

“Yes, Thexan- a future together, with you.”

She saw his pupils dilate slightly, the black being swallowed up by the stormy grey, and his breathing was a little uneven. “I like the sound of that,” he said, somewhat hoarsely. “Even if… especially forever, I mean.”

Her blood felt like it was on fire, and her head was spinning. “One day at a time,” she whispered, feeling both ecstatically giddy and overwhelmingly dizzy at the same time. “Let’s try today first.”

She held out her hand to him, and he took it without hesitation; when she rose to her feet he followed her, and she let out a delighted squeak when he pulled her forward and into his arms, closing her eyes as she sank into the kiss. He still had her hand in his, holding it as if they were about to take the first step into a formal dance, and the other slid down her back to hold her closer. 

“I love you,” he whispered, his forehead pressed against hers.

She shivered. “I love you too, Thexan,” she whispered in return. 

They stumbled towards the main cabin, giggling and gasping for breath; at the sight of their bags still on the bed, Ona’la sent them flying towards the far wall with a flick of her hand and a touch of the Force. Thexan let out a hungry whine at the display, surprising her, and when he tugged her towards the bed she went willingly; he sat on the edge and when she went to join him he shook his head, his hands going instead to her hips and pulling her forward. She had to half straddle his legs, one knee dropping onto the bed beside him, and she gave him a curious look. 

“I wanted to see about something,” he said, far too innocently given the moments earlier she’d felt his arousal pressed between their clothing. 

“Oh?” 

His hand slid around to her lower back, and she shivered again when his fingers tangled around the end of one of her lekku; she guessed what he was about to do about a half second before he teased it over her shoulder and brought the tip up to his mouth. 

She let out a strangled cry at the gentle way he kissed it, his lips sliding over it and warmth closing around it. She realised she was gripping at his shoulder hard enough to bruise, but she needed it for balance. Panting heavily, she whimpered as he suckled carefully on the end, a smugly triumphant look in his eyes. 

“Now we’re even.” 

She blinked, in a daze of lust. “What?”

“Now we’re even- you made me weak-kneed by kissing my ear out on the balcony that night, and you said it was sort of the same for your lekku.”

She burst out laughing. “You interminable brat,” she said, pushing on his shoulder until he flopped backwards onto the bed. She crawled up after him, her thighs either side of his hips as she climbed up to meet him. “Have you been planning that all this time?” 

He was so damn _pleased_ with himself, and it delighted her. “I am a masterful tactician, Battlemaster,” he said, pulling her down to kiss. 

She giggled against his mouth, momentarily distracted. “Are you declaring war, your Highness?” she managed to gasp, rolling her hips down against his for good measure.

“If that were the case, I appear to be- _gngh_ \- at a sizeable disadvantage.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, darling.”

He tore himself away for a moment, staring up at her with the goofiest shy grin on his face. “Darling?” he asked, clearly delighted. 

She grinned in return. “Freykaa,” she purred, and he groaned happily. 

“I like this too,” he panted, his hands on her hips.

“This?”

He blushed so prettily. “You, um... like that. On me.”

Okay, that made her blush as well, the ends of her lekku curling up. “Do you want to see if you like it more without clothes on?” 

“Yes please.”

It was a little awkward to lose their clothes, and it resulted in more laughter and awkward blushing, but she wouldn’t have had it any other way. Seeing Thexan smile, hearing him laugh- it was enthralling in a way she couldn’t quite grasp, but she felt intoxicated by it and she _needed_ more of it. 

And watching him come apart beneath her as she rode him slowly to completion was one of the most breathtaking experiences of her life. Feeling it happen, the way he shuddered and bucked, feeling him within her, was enough for her to join him in the moment, and goddess was it wonderful not having to worry about being overheard. 

She lay cuddled atop him after, half-napping as she let the blissful drowsiness wash over her, shivering every now and then at the little flickers of pleasure that were still settling within her. His hands ran lazily up and down her back, stopping to play with her curling lekku whenever they snared his fingers.

“I love you,” he murmured, his lips pressed against her forehead.

She smiled against his skin. “You said that already.”

“I’m allowed to say it again.”

“Are you _sure_ that’s what you’re feeling?” 

She meant it to be silly, but she felt him still beneath her. His hand came up to touch her face, the backs of his fingers running slowly over her cheek, as if marvelling in the texture of her skin. “I don’t know if it’s the right word for... what I feel,” he said. “There’s a lot that it... it’s hard to explain.”

Ona’la traced aimless shapes over his chest, his chest hair delightfully soft and springy beneath her fingers. “What does it feel like?” she asked softly. 

“First it was just confusion,” he started, and she giggled, kissing his chest.

“How romantic,” she teased.

“Hush,” he said, bopping his finger against her nose. “I couldn’t understand why you were so determined to protect me, why you kept being polite to me when I was rude, why you kept fighting people for me and offering to be my friend.” He took a deep breath, as if he was a little emotional, and she ran her foot up the inside of his calf. “ _Aha_ , you’re not making this easier.”

She smiled, pressing another kiss to his chest, and then another. “Don’t let me distract you,” she said.

He groaned happily. “You’re such a menace,” he said, squirming underneath her. “I’m trying to be honest here.”

“Mmm, so what came after confusion?” 

“I was angry, for a little while,” he said, a little more breathlessly. “I thought it was a trick, trying to get me to trust you.”

She smiled, but there was sadness in the expression as she rested her cheek against his chest, the faint thud of his heart sounding beneath the warmth of his skin. “It was never a trick,” she said.

“I know that now,” he said. “But I was frightened, and lonely, and confused. I didn’t know what to think.”

“I’m sorry if I didn’t make it easier for you.”

“No,” he said, his fingers running slowly over the curve of her lekku until she shivered. “Don’t apologise for that. It’s who you are, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

She rolled her chin so that she was facing him again, taking in the sleepily sated look in his eyes and the contentment in him. Her heart fluttered a little at that look. “So how did you go from frightened and angry and confused to what you think might be love?”

She felt him shift beneath her, and the hand on her back slid lower, hovering just over the curve of her ass. “Oh, I don’t think, I know,” he said, something teasing in his tone. “You were so kind and gentle, and you never made me feel like I was less important or less worthy of respect than anyone else in the room with us. You treated me like I was a person.” He paused. “Or was I supposed to talk about how spellbindingly beautiful you are and how I want to kiss every inch of you?”

“Listen to you, you flatterer,” she said, but she could feel her cheeks warming. “Have you been taking pick up line advice from Theron or something?”

“My talent is entirely my own, thank you very much.”

“Mm, so I’m in the hands of an expert, am I?”

The sleepy look in his eyes was slowly turning to interest, not quite ablaze but certainly kindled with warmth. “Entirely,” he said, leaning in to kiss her. She stretched up to meet him, settling one thigh over his to give her more height, and she could feel his growing _interest_ pressed against her belly between them. “So you shouldn’t ever need a second opinion on the matter.”

“I didn’t give you permission to stop with the flattery,” she said pointedly, trying not to giggle in between the rather lazy kisses. 

He grinned against her cheek, and she felt his hand coaxing her to rest astride him fully, her weight settled completely on him; she snuggled into him, her head tucked beneath his chin as his fingers teased patterns on her back. “First it was a matter of honour,” he said quietly, sleepily. “You defended me, so honour dictates that I couldn’t turn my back on you. Then it was self preservation too, because I could see how much worse off I’d be without you there.”

She giggled, and he squeezed her ass as if in warning. “And from there... then it became grudging respect, and then a sense of safety and trust, and then it became friendship and a fierce desire to protect you in turn, and then somewhere...”

He trailed off, and she eased herself up onto an elbow. “Thexan?” she asked, touching his lips gently. 

He seemed lost in concentration, frowning slightly as he studied her. “Somewhere, I lost track of where or when, but I realised that I quite enjoyed the fact that you trusted me in return. That you smiled at me, and laughed with me. You made me feel...” He licked his lips, as if nervous. “Alive, I suppose. Like I was truly waking up from the dead. You made me feel like I could possibly be a worthwhile person, if I tried hard enough, and a person that other people might give a damn about.”

He looked away, almost guiltily, colour in his cheeks. “And I don’t know, it’s not like I have any experience with love or even friendship, so I don’t know if I’m getting the two confused, but I just know that I always feel like everything is going to be alright when you smile at me, or reach for my hand. And that I- I really like all of- all of this-” He gestured between the two of them, entwined naked together, “-and your happiness means a great deal to me and so I... I think that’s what it is. I think that means I love you.” The certainty in his eyes made her tremble. “I love you, Ona’la.” 

She wanted to say something witty, something to lighten the intensity of the mood, but she realised after a moment that she couldn’t do that; she couldn’t throw the enormity of his confession back at him by joking about it. “I love you too, Thexan,” she whispered instead, touching her finger to the tear that had escaped from his lashes and was slipping towards the pillow. “And I promise you, no one is going to hurt you ever again.”

“Ona’la,” he said, but she pushed onwards.

“Not the Senate, not the Jedi, not your brother, and not even your father.” She cupped his cheek as she leaned down to kiss him fiercely, wiping away another of his tears with her thumb. “I won’t let them.” 

____

The sun was setting, the vast horizon of metal and glass catching the light and turning everything to a burnished, burning gold. Kylaena hadn’t bothered to turn on the light, because when she’d sat down on the lounge in her modest Coruscant apartment, it had still been quite well-lit. Somehow, hours had passed without her realising, the dark slowly creeping in on her while the fading light bounced painfully off the gleaming walls of the apartment building opposite her and shone into her eyes. 

Everything was the wrong colour, like there was a fire far below and the light of it had bounced over every surface on the vast city planet to reach her, glowing gold and burning while the dark of the smoke closed in. 

It felt like an apt metaphor for the state of the Republic, and the Jedi Order. Something was wrong, a fire was burning far below, but she couldn’t reach it to douse the flames. Only sit and watch the fallout settle in, while the dread grew in her heart. 

How had she lost the afternoon? 

She reached up to her face, finding her cheeks damp and sticky when she touched her fingertips to them; that seemed to jar her a little from the daze of contemplations she’d been in, because she sat forward and cleared her throat, reaching for the box of facial towelettes on the table. 

She was many things to many people- a prodigy, a symbol of rebellion, a leader and a diplomat. The child of a Balmorra freedom fighter and ex-slave, a gifted child smuggled through Imperial lines to the Jedi, the protégé of Master Syo Bakarn himself from an early age, an unmatched fighter pilot responsible for breaking through numerous Imperial planetary blockades, groomed to be the next Battlemaster until the untimely death of Master Seros saw Master Ona’la better placed to take the position... she was, in all things, the perfect Jedi.

And she was frightened. 

Wiping carefully at her face, she reached for the small holoprojector built into the table and keyed in the personal code for home. She took the few moments it took to connect to compose herself, smoothing back her hair and sniffing into the back of her hand, hoping that she didn’t look too ragged to the person on the other end.

There was a click, and then the static cleared, and a familiar figure stood before her in blue; Kylaena felt her heart soar at the sight of him, and she couldn’t help but break out into a relieved grin. “Hello, Tai,” she said.

Tai Cordan, the President of Balmorra and her beloved husband, matched her smile. “Hello to you too, sweetheart,” he said; his hair looked a little dishevelled as well, as if he’d been running his hands through it in frustration. It was a familiar look for him. “I heard the news.”

“Were you watching the debate?”

“We were,” he said. “We had a live feed going in parliament, and I’ve already had meetings with the Leader of the Opposition-”

“You can just say Zenith, my love, I know who you mean.”

He laughed, and the sound made her unexpectedly teary. “Well, that’s true enough,” he said ruefully. 

Kylaena held his gaze through the holocomm, proud of herself that her voice did not tremble at all. “And everyone is well?”

Tai’s boyish grin still made her heart flutter, even after all this time. “Well, as well as can be expected, given the circumstances,” he said. “We’re trying to increase production output before Zakuul shuts us down, so it’s all stations go at the moment.”

She smiled in return, but she was worried he’d notice the tears in her eyes in a moment. “Have you been eating enough?”

He laughed. “You know, you sound exactly like your mother sometimes, it’s uncanny.”

“I take that as a compliment.”

“As well you should,” he said with mock severity. “Andi is coping far better than a lot of my own ministers, to be honest. All her years in the rebellion, she hasn’t even blinked an eye at all the droids dropping out of the sky. And she’s nagging at me to stay well fed every time I turn around, mothering everyone incessantly. Do you know, I caught her badgering the Minister for Science just the other day, she came into work with a cold and Andi wasn’t having any of it. She was herding her down the hallway towards the exit like a baby bormu.”

She had to do it. She had to tell him. It was killing her not saying anything and laughing like nothing was particularly amiss. “Tai,” she began, and then hesitated. 

His expression turned serious, no more mischief in his eyes as he watched her. “You got your orders,” he said, not a question but a statement of fact. He knew her too well. 

She nodded, lifting a hand to quickly dab at her eyes. “I’m to lead the Aegis into battle against the Eternal Fleet,” she said, her voice wobbling treacherously. “I’m leaving with the Second Fleet tomorrow for the Outer Rim.”

Tai didn’t say anything for a moment, absorbing the news. “Well,” he said finally, and his voice was a little rough too, as if he was struggling to keep his own emotions in check, “it makes sense for them to have the best pilot in the Republic leading the charge.”

She laughed shakily, because it was that or burst into tears. “It’s an honour I'm somewhat regretting at the moment.”

“Hey,” he said seriously, “if there’s anyone who can give those assholes a run for their money, it’s you.”

She couldn’t do it. “Tai, I’m pregnant,” she blurted out, because she just couldn’t hold it in any longer.

____

It hurt to wake. 

Kallathe fought off the dregs of pain and confusion that threatened to drag her back down into unconsciousness, panting for breath as she stood and stared around in growing anger at the shattered fragments of consciousness around her, strewn about like asteroids against an inky black sky. She was awake, but she knew that she was not- the last thing she remembered had been standing with the brattish prince who called himself Arcann, working together to kill his father once and for all. 

There was no sign of the prince, nor the grand throne room that had stood poised amongst the stars. There wasn’t even any sign of a planet nearby, the sky empty but for the asteroid field she found herself in. 

“Ahh,” purred a skin-crawling voice, echoing between her ears and through her flesh, “at last you awaken.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“And now, my dear Nox, we can begin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. We made it to the end. 
> 
> Thank you so, so much to everyone who joined me for this adventure- it's not the end, of course, because we've literally only just started the war (as Valkorion says 'and now we can begin') so there will be another story coming in the near future. I've already started it, but I may take a breather for a week before I throw myself into it in earnest. It's definitely not the last we've seen of Ona'la and Thexan, or the rest of these malcontents. 
> 
> As always, thank you to everyone who let me borrow their characters to join in the misadventures. You've honoured me so much letting me play with your kids.


End file.
